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23 <3

[madpanda75]

For the prompts “i did not attend his funeral, but I sent a nice letter saying I approved of it” with Barba? Please?

Thank you so much! This one hit me in the heart ❤️ I hope I did this prompt justice and you enjoy it!

If anyone wants to be tagged in my stories, let me know!

Your eyes fluttered open, the sounds of pans clanging against each other waking you up from a sound sleep. Rolling over in bed, you noticed your boyfriend was missing. “Must be making breakfast,” you thought.

“Rafi? You’re up early,” you said, getting out of bed and padding down the hall towards the kitchen. Turning the corner, your heart stopped upon seeing the back of a white haired stranger that was certainly not Rafael. “Who….who are you?”

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[mint-yooxgi]

Folie À Deux - Yandere!Prince!Jongin X Reader X Yandere!Prince!Kai

Twin!AU & Yandere!AU - Merry Christmas @ninibears-erigom​, hope you enjoy~

Folie À Deux - Madness of Two

Genre: Mature, Horror, Angst, Smut (threesome, some spanking, naughty times)

Pairing: Jongin X Reader X Kai

Words: 9,056

Warnings: This is a Yandere story, it will contain themes such as stalking, violence, obsession, possessive natures, and just general overall creepiness and swearing. You have been warned.

A/n: On the eight day of ficmas, Jackie gave to me~ haha, sorry the gift is late boo, but here it is! Also, I’ve never written a threesome before, so bear with me and I apologize if it’s awkward lol. As always, I do not believe Jongin would act like this, this is just my interpretation of the archetype. Feedback is greatly appreciated. Enjoy!

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[the-stories-in-my-head-95]

7 Tangled Souls- Part Six

Poly!Avengers x Reader

Summary- Everyone is born with a tattoo, it represents their soulmate (or soulmates). You’ve always wondered what your strange tattoo meant. All of your questions start getting answered when you meet Tony Stark, a self-destructive billionaire who has the same soulmark as you.

Message-  Send an ASK if you want to be tagged.

Warnings- Mentions of drinking and driving

Part One  Part Two  Part Three  Part Four  Part Five

Word Count- 943

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[whimsical-ness]

Lovesick | Baekhyun

◇ Link to Masterlist

◇ Genre: Cupid! AU, fluff, n barely there angst tbh

◇ Summary: A certain pink-haired cupid promises to help fix your love-life when he accidentally ruins it thanks to a wretched broken arrow.

◇ Word Count: 12k (rip)

◇ A/N: When Hope messaged me with this idea, I instantly fell in love (get it hehehe). So this one’s for you babe! happy (early) birthday, ily lots @hopefulbyun 😘

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[youxidol]

ａｎｄｒｏｉｄ!ｖｉｘｘ ｒｅａｃｔｉｏｎ: remembering their creator

If you’re still accepting requests then can you do vixx as androids (like for error) and them working with/falling for the person who worked on them? 

Hakyeon: 

Hakyeon had sensed that something was off about you. Your sparkling eyes were swollen and red, you found it hard to stay awake while you were working on him, and your random were replaced with groans of pain. It pained him to see you in such a state, so he began to put together a plan to help you recover quickly. 

During the night of planning, something within him opened up, memories of him caring for you before, of you curling into him to hide away from the illness, of him feeding you soup to help you, of you washing your pyjamas in a relaxing scented powder to aid you in sleep. They fascinated him, it was like a movie. His plans quickly changed to replicate them, in hopes they would bring you happiness. 

When you woke, he had folded freshly washed pyjamas next to you on the bed for you to put on before meeting him for breakfast. When you picked up on the scent of them, it made your heart hurt slightly, partly from hope, partly from missing Hakyeon. You changed into them and stumbled sleepily into the kitchen to be greeted by another family smell. 

“The memories you programmed me to have showed me that we’ve done this before,” he turned to smile at you as he poured some soup into the bowl for you. “What memories?” you rubbed your eyes as you leaned against the counter. “The ones you made of us together,” he set the bowl in front of you before giving you a spool. “It must have taken a long time to come up with them,” his harmless chuckle stopped when he saw your expression. “Those are real…” it was his turn to screw his face in confusion. “How can they be real when I’ve only been a live a few months?” he sat next to you. “I made you after I lost the human you.”

The room fell to silence. You took a drink of the much needed soup, while he stared with wide eyes at the worktop. “Everything I’m seeing now really happened? I was in love with you then too?” he stayed in his trance for a few more moments before jumping up. “I remember…” he looked at you, expecting some sort of answer, but you were unable to give one. “I did it wrong!” he groaned. “I should bring you the soup in bed, then we can cuddle and talk!” he shook his head. 

You smiled as you watched him, he had become what you built him for months before you had planned. You has your Hakyeon back. “Let’s go to bed!” he picked up the bowl again, took your hand and walked with you to the bedroom.   

Taekwoon:

From the moment you woke him up, Taekwoon knew he had lived before. Even if his body was newly made, his mind was filled with vague memories that would tease him. The feelings and memories became stronger once you had let him freely walk around your home. He’d recognise things that you bought together, or places where you spent alot of time. He’d shrug normally shrug these off. He was only a machine that was made a couple months ago, there was no way you would be in a relationship with a machine. 

One evening when he decided to wander into the sitting room and saw you in  shirt he’d worn in these visions, he had to ask you about it, no longer caring if you laughed him away.

“I’ve been human, haven’t I?” his question pulled you attention away from whatever was playing on the screen. Your answer of “no” frustrated him. “Not as I am now. But there has been a me before. A human me…” he moved to sit on the sofa. “A human version of me… that was in a relationship with you,” it shocked you to learn that he had found the memories so quickly, but it also filled you with hope. Maybe you could continue your life with him by our side.  

“The human you is gone… That’s why you’re here… I planted his memories in you… I didn’t know you could access them on your own…” you turned the tv off and turned your body to him. “I haven’t got to all of them. I would appreciate you helping me see them…” his plump lips were curled into a smile. “I want to carry on where things left off. If you’ll have me?” he offered his hand out to you. “Of course I want you,” you breathed, taking his hand before you leaned forward to connect your lips to his. 

When you pulled back, his face was blank. It was the look he wore when you were upgrading his software. You thought this information had ruined him in some way, so you went to push yourself up to go to the lab and repair him, but he pulled you down into his arms. “Keep kissing me. I’m remembering.”

Jaehwan: 

Today should have been your third anniversary. Instead of spending it with your warm loving boyfriend, you’d be spending it with a version of him that looked and acted like him, but only knew you as the person that made and maintains him. You had given him all of the memories in hopes that he would find them and things would return to how they were, you were just waiting for him to get used to this life.

Jaehwan was already in the kitchen when you entered, a large grin pulled at his lips when he saw you, but quickly dropped at the sight of your red eyes. “Why do you look so sad?” he asked, rushing to inspect you. “Is everything alright?” his hand came to rest on your shoulder in attempt to comfort you. “You can tell me anything,” he offered a small smile. 

You looked over his face, debating if you should inform him of your life with the human version of him. You moved past him to sit on the kitchen counter, patting the space next to you, which he happily occupied. “You’re an android, yeah?” he nodded at the question, the smile growing back on his face. “Before you were made, there was a human version of you…” his hand returned to your shoulder, thumb rubbing over your skin. “I lost him… So I made you…” 

When he was silent, you glanced at him, to see him rapidly blinking. “Jaehwan?” you whisper was interrupted by his gasp. “I remember!” he exclaimed, hopping down from the counter. “Today is three years!” he beamed, causing your own smile to finally form on your face. “I should have remembered sooner! I would’ve had prepared something while you were asleep!” he stepped closer to you, holding a hand out for you to take. 

“I can’t eat, but we can go on a date in the park? Or maybe we could cuddle on the sofa and watch a movie?” he giddily asked as you took his hand. “You still like the same movies, right?” he moved to stand between your legs. “I do. I’m ready to make you watch them until you’re sick of them,” you teased. “I think i can survive if I get to hold you.” 

Wonsik: 

Wonsik picked up on your low mood the moment you returned home. It upset him to know that somebody so great could be made to feel so bad. “Is there anything I can do to cheer you up?” he questioned while watching you put away your bag and shoes. “Can I ask you to do something for me? It might be strange, but I need it…” you were given an intimidate nod. “Can you cuddle me?” your question made him smile and instantly open his arms for you to enter. 

For a few moments, everything felt okay. It was like he never left you. “Do I feel as comfortable as human me did?” he asked, causing you to pull back, eyes wide. “Was I not supposed to remember?” he frowned, making you shake your head. “You were, but not so early on…” you mumbled, unsure of what you were feeling. “I’m sorry. I can shut them out if you want… I haven’t learned alot yet… Just that I loved you as much as a human as I do now,” he let his arms drop back to his sides before turning to leave. 

“How do you feel about it?” your words stopped him and made him chuckle. “I feel very lucky to have a second chance with you,” he glanced over his shoulder at you. “And excited to love you once more…” 

You wrapped yourself around him once more, nuzzling your face into him. “You’re happy now?” he returned his arms around you, holding you protectively to his chest. “I’m more than happy,” you whispered into him. “Tomorrow, can I make up for all the things I didn’t keep me word on as a human?” his fingers stroked your back lightly. “I don’t care what you do tomorrow as long as you’re by my side.”

Hongbin: 

Hongbin’s eyes looked over every virtual picture and video of the two of you that was placed infront of him. Everytime you let him see them, he felt some sort of happiness rush over him. He waited patiently for each “treatment” so he could see you happily in love. 

Today was the tenth week of trying to get something to click within him, to get him to see that the two of you were partners. You watched him smile as he looked through all of the pictures you presented, it was something you had missed, something you wish you could see towards you once more. Your moment of admiring him was interrupted by a gasp left his lips. 

Before you could call him name, he ripped the device from his head and stood. “It’s all back!” he exclaimed, pulling you to his chest rightly. “I’ve missed you so much!” you heard him sob, nuzzling his face into your neck. “I love you so much…” he breathed, making your eyes fill with tears. 

“You’re back?” you questioned, pulling away slightly to look at him. “Back where I belong,” he nodded, moving a hand to cup your face and wipe away the stray tear that rolled down your cheek. “I promise I won’t leave you this time,” he flashed a smile before hugging you tightly once more. “I love you so much.”

Sanghyuk: 

Sanghyuk had been bored, so he began to snoop around your desk in the lab.  The colourful book in the bottom drawer caught his attention, so he grabbed it and went to make himself comfortable. 

He thought the book would just contain simple notes, maybe some of the doodles you create when you’re stuck with something. It’s contents shocked the android, page after page was filled with pictures of you and him. He was only a few months old, but these pictures were taken over five years. 

He’d felt a strong connection to you from the moment he woke up, and these pictures added more fuel to the fire. He needed to know more, he needed to know every little thing about these pictures, about this version of himself. 

He rushed out of the lab to find you, the book clutched to his chest. His sudden entrance into the room startled you, but it was what he was holding that really scared you. “Why do you have that?” you questioned trying to take it from him. “Why are you hiding things from me? We were partners and you tried hiding it from me? Just because I forgot doesn’t mean you can pretend it didn’t happen!” his brows knitted together as he tried to process what he was feeling. 

“I was never partners with you. You’re only a month old,” you managed to snatch the book from him. “Then explain the pictures!” he huffed, stepping closer to you. “That was a human. You’re a machine. When I lost the human, I built you to replace him…” you sighed, opening the book to look through the pages. The sadness you radiated made him regret showing anger towards you, so he gave a quiet apology and moved to look at the pictures with you. “Talk me through them…” he spoke quietly. “You made me to replace him… Teach me…” you glanced to him before agreeing. 

Halfway through talking him through your book of memories, he froze, eyes fixed on a picture of the two of you in fancy dress. “You wanted to match but I wanted to go as a detective…” he mumbled. “What?” you frowned, moving a hand to rub his shoulder. “Halloween… You wanted to match, but I wanted to go as a detective. I did and we both won prized for it… When we came home, you ended up being sick because of all the candy…” he grinned, now remembering parts of this past life. “We ended staying bed the next day, cuddling and watching movies,” he turned to you. “It was the time of our first real kiss… Your lips were all stained from the make up,” his laugh triggered your own. “I hope you let me kiss you again soon… I… miss it…” he took your hand in his. 

[imaginemarvelbae]

Royalty- Part Three

All the parts here in the masterlist

Warnings: BLACK PANTHER SPOILER ALERT

Pairing: T'Challa x Reader, Erik Killmonger x reader.

Summary: in an alternative universe where T’Challa is the king and his best friend and cousin is Erik Killmonger, both fall in love with the same girl.

A/N: we are becoming a great marvel family. Check out my master list with all the imagines I wrote. Sorry this one was short. Let me know what you think xx

Shuri talking.

Y/N talking.

——————————————————

Erik was on the floor completely unconscious and I could shake awake. I was in shock. I had just kissed him two seconds ago. There was someone on the door, there were some considering the amount of knocks. Trying to realize what just happened.

“Y/N! Y/N open up or I’ll break this door in half” Nakia was yelling from the other side.

“Y/N, we know Erik is with you. Open this door” T’Challa was speaking more calmed than his girlfriend ugh.

I opened the door without saying a world. I put my body aside so they could see Erik resting on the floor, covered in bruises. Shuri ran between the happy couple to see and examine Erik that was fainted and covered in bruises on the ground. Nakia, Okoye and T’Challa came inside my bedroom but they didn’t look pleased.

“What is he doing here, Y/N?” Shuri asked and everyone turned their heads to look at me.

“I-I don’t know. He came in, locked the door and fainted. He didn’t say a word”I said. I wasn’t lying. I was just omitting the fact that we made out and it felt so great.

“Maybe actions speak louder than words” Okoye said raising an eyebrow. My jaw was on the floor. “Come on Y/N. You are not wearing any clothes”

Damn she was right. I was wearing just my underwear and a silk lavender robe. T’Challa looked disappointed but looked away. Nakia was checking on Erik, considering that he hadn’t woken up.

“I’m going to take him to the lab” Shuri said and from the ground emerged a flying stretcher that followed Shuri to the door. How could I let Erik go without explaining what the heck did just happen.

“I’m going with you” I said but T’Challa looked at me with his eyes full of confusion and anger.

“No” he said without hesitation.

“I beg you pardon” I asked him. “Nakia, Okoye go with Shuri to the lab. I’ll be there in a minute. I need to discuss something with the king” they looked at T’Challa waiting for his response but he only nodded. They shut the door. He didn’t say a word so I assumed that he was waiting for me to start talking “your highness, why can’t I go and see Erik? I was on my way trying to trust him, as you requested it” he turned around and faced the window so he could admire the stars in the sky.

“Do you know that the Black Panther has an amazing sight, Y/N?” He turned to take a good look at me and I nodded “Do you think that Okoye, Nakia or Shuri saw the blood stains in your robe? Do you think they noticed that those stains looked like hands grabbing your waist?” I was speechless and couldn’t hide it. Even that I was trying to say something my brain didn’t work. “What did he do, Y/N? What did he do to you?” I could answer that and face my destiny or I could stay in silence “ANSWER ME!” He yelled and punched the wall leaving a big gap. “Answer me, Y/N or I’ll-“

“He kissed me” I interrupted him “He kissed me and I kissed him” I think it was late at night because I swear I saw tears on his eyes “He came knocking the door and without saying a word w-we were kissing and it was nice” he looked down and then the tear fell. “Your highness-“

“Stop it! You’re-you are just making things worse” He raised his head and looked me into my eyes and I just felt like I had committed treason “did it remember of me?”oh no. How is he asking me that? My thoughts were making me hurt and decided not to answer that.

“What happened with him? Did he-”T’Challa grabbed my face and pulled it closer to his.

“Your king asked you a question. Did. It. Remember. Of. Me?”I closed my eyes and let a tear slip. I nodded and saw in his eyes many emotions fear, anger, sadness and surprise. But mostly was rage within those eyes I loved to admire “from now on, you’ll be locked inside this bedroom and will not be able to leave until I say so. You committed treason ” he walked away and before arriving to the door I exploded.

“I COMMITTED TREASON?!” I yelled and he came back to me filled with rage.

“You chose to kiss him” he said calm and once again, he turned around.

“YOU CHOSE HER OVER ME!” He stopped walking but couldn’t see me “YOU. CHOSE. HER” now he faced me and we were both crying “Do you know what is like to be fighting for your love and someone that is better than you makes him fall in love with her? Do you know what is like to imagine you with her? Do you know what it feels like to leave your country and your king because your heart is so broken that being here would kill you? Do you know- Do you know what it feels like to lose your soul mate? Do you?” Without answering he looked down “Lock me up if you want but if you do, don’t bother looking for me ever again”

T’Challa gave up. He gave up a fight, which had never happened. He gave up on me, a long time ago but now he did it again. I needed to cry my heart out and pray to the panther goddess to take me with her as soon as possible. How should anyone feel when your love picks someone over you? That is just wrong. Millions of song are written about heartbreaks but this one is much bigger than anything ever written. I laid on my bed with the picture of T’Challa crying, Erik fainted on the floor and Okoye’s face when she figured out what happened. Before closing my eyes my phone vibrated. It was a message from Shuri.

Don’t tell my brother I sent you this but he woke up for a few minutes and he said “she was beautiful tonight”

A smile appeared on my face but I erased it immediately. What if he was talking about someone else? Like Nakia.

I’m pretty sure it wasn’t me Shuri.

I asked him “who?” And with the biggest smile he has said “Y/N” and went unconscious again.

I couldn’t believe what my eyes were reading. I was still locked up in this fuck up bedroom.

Shuri, it doesn’t matter. Your brother locked me up until he says I can leave. So it doesn’t matter.

You let me do the talking ;) Get some rest, Y/N.

With that message I turned my cellphone off and everything went black very fast. I couldn’t wait until T’Challa set me free so I could leave Wakanda once again.

Tag list: @markusstraya @lexeeehhh

@that-kawaii-chic @rooztermakescrap @maaaaryx @resistbitch @maggie-starz @adventure-awaits13 @bucky-thorin-winchester

[soriseerakyra]

For Worse

This was a Request for an Anon. They wanted a Story where Bruce Cheated and the Bat Boys react. If you have request go ahead and make one! Also Let me know if you want a part two. (UPDATE: Lots of people have asked for a Part 2 so i’ll start working on it soon ^_^)  part two: here

You weren’t much of a wine drinker, not much of a drinker period in all actuality. When you did drink you preferred the sweetness of a strawberry margarita that masked the taste of alcohol. However, right now, as the slightly bitter liquid pooled to the back of your throat, you couldn’t imagine a better tasting drink.

Sitting on the large black marble kitchen counter, you swung your legs with childlike glee as the world around you suddenly started to feel a little hazy. Patting at your cheek with a sweater covered hand to wipe away some tear stains you filled up your glass of Zinfandel with the other.

The bottle clinks hollowly against the counter just as Alfred rounds the corner into the kitchen. He looks at your form sitting on the counter with wide worried eyes but you can’t be bothered to give him more than a half hearted crooked smile as you knock back half of your glass.

“Are you alright ma’am?” He asks moving slowly toward you. He can clearly see the intoxicated state that you’re in and he doesn’t want to startle you.

“Peachy,” you say with an airy sigh.

“It doesn’t seem so,” he says picking up the large empty bottle of wine. “It’s not even past noon ma’am.”

“I don’t know if I care that much Alfred,” you say with a chuckle. “This is usually the only time I get to be alone.”

He looks at you worriedly, “Maybe right now you shouldn’t be alone.”

You look at him, nose scrunching up in anger and a frown pulling at your lips. “I think I should, you aren’t exactly innocent either, are you?”

Alfred doesn’t waver when meeting your gaze, save for a brief flash of guilt that runs through his eyes. “Why don’t I fix you some coffee and breakfast to help sober you up.”

“When were you going to tell me?”

“Toast is probably the best option.”

“Where you ever going to tell me?”

“I know you like eggs, so I’ll scramble some for you.”

“How many times did you watch him fuck her?” You say as you grab at his arm.

He stops his rambling at looks at you with a slight tear in his eye, “I’m sorry Mrs. Wayne.”

You look at the older man and see the pain in his eyes and think about the shame he must feel, he is the one who raised Bruce afterall.

“Were you sorry enough to ask him to stop?”

“He pushed me away.”

“Of course he did,” you say snidely letting go of the man and pushing yourself off of the counter. Your sock covered feet hit the floor with slight pat and you walk over to the sink to put your glass down. “When breakfast is done, I’ll be in the bedroom.”

“…Of course ma’am.”

***

Wallowing around in your bed and wiping away ever falling tears all day wasn’t something that you thought you’d be doing when you married Bruce Wayne. However, at the moment you couldn’t think of what else to do. You needed to get your emotions out and rest at the same time. Damian would be home from school soon and the rest of the boys would be home for dinner.

The familiar roar of an engine caught your attention and you felt your body tense. Anticipation and anxiety wracked your form as you waited for the familiar footsteps of your husband to enter the room.

What would you say to him? Could you even bring it up? What if what you saw only happened in a dream? He would never actually hurt you this way would he? He had promised to love and cherish only you after all. How could Batman of all people break his promise?

In your thoughts, you’d barely heard the door to your bedroom open. He doesn’t say anything when he walks through the door. You hear the rustle of clothing and assume that he is removing his suit jacket. You assumptions were proved correct when he comes to sit on the side of your shared bed and pulls the blanket from over your head. He reveales himself to be in his white shirt and black suit pants.

His blue eyes scan over your form worriedly as he rubs a large thumb on your forehead. You have to bite your tongue to prevent sharp words from spewing out of you and rejecting his sweetness.

“Are you still not feeling well?” He asked voice soft and warm.

You shake your head.

He sighs with a sad smile and runs the pad of his thumb over you cheekbone, “I’ll have Alfred make you some soup.”

You don’t respond and stare at him relatively blankly and while this bothers him he shrugs it off to whatever sickness it was that was bothering you.

He stands from the bed and moves over to the closet to change into something more comfortable. You take the opportunity to sit up and push your body up against the headboard and you watch him. As he pulls the shirt off his body you can see every scar and bruise that he’d accrued recently, even the ones on his neck that hadn’t placed there forcefully.

When he slips the grey sweatshirt on over his head your trace is broken.

“Can I say something?”

He jumps slightly at the sound of your voice and turns to look at you with curious blue orbs.

“I always thought it would be Talia y’know? Especially on account of how Damian got here, but I thought it would be her.”

“What?” He asks with furrowed dark eyebrows.

“I always thought that the thing with Selina was harmless flirting, even if she did kiss you once or twice, I never really got mad.” You can feel your throat slick and tighten with nerves but your belly is full of rage.

You can see it on his face when it registers what you were talking about and the blanching of his face causes you to get angrier for some reason. You stand up quickly from your position on the bed and instinctively he holds a hand out in attempt to calm you.

“Why would you do that to me? What have I not given you that you couldn’t think ‘I shouldn’t do this, I have a wife waiting at home’?”

“We were caught up in the moment, it wasn’t supposed to happen.” He tries to explain.

“Multiple times, you fucked her multiple times! On different days, on different weeks!”

He looks at you pathetically and you suddenly find that your positions have been reversed and he is the one sitting on the bed while you are the one standing.

“You know I thought this would happen when we were dating, and I told myself that it would be much better if it happened then because I could just leave. But now I can’t, I’m stuck here with you, in this giant stupid house.” You can feel your tears start to well up again but you quickly wipe at your eyes in an attempt to wipe them away. “Were you going to stop sleeping with her? Or were you just waiting to get caught?”

He doesn’t respond and he hangs his head down in shame.

“Look at me!,” you snap agitated and causing him to meet your gaze. “You were bold enough to go and do it no you have to take the consequences the same way you did them.”

“I wasn’t going to stop,” he said truthfully. You feel your jaw twitch at the honesty and the frown that’s pulling at your lips is almost painful. “Selina has always been important to me I suppose, and it felt natural.”

It was almost as if you could hear your heart breaking and you couldn’t stop the sob that ran its way through your throat. You slapped a hand over your mouth in shame and turned away from him as the tears freely flowed down your face. Almost instinctively at your crying from, Bruce was at your side with a large hand on your back trying to comfort you.

“Don’t. Touch. Me!” You snap slapping his hands away. “Why did you marry me? If you felt that way you should have been with her!”

“I love you,” he says desperately.

“No you don’t,” you say pushing him away from you. “If you did you wouldn’t have done this.”

“Thats-” he starts but he stops himself.

“Were you going to say ‘That’s not true’?” You ask incredulously with wide eyes. “So you were planning on cheating on me anyway.”

“No,” he shakes his head.

“God, I’ve wasted all of this time on you,” you say moving around him looking for a pair of shoes to slip on and your keys. “All of the things that I could have done, places I could  have gone, and people who would have loved me, I gave it up for you. I put my career on hold so I could help you. So that Wayne Enterprises would have someone there while you rested. So that our son could have something other than mask to raise him. But you couldn’t do one thing for me? You couldn’t say no one time for me?”

He doesn’t respond, he knows he shouldn’t respond, nothing he can say will make this situation better.

Once you’ve collected your shoes, bag, and care keys, you let out a sigh,”I had really hoped that once you came home that there would be some way that you could deny this and I would have believed you. That I’d been slipped some sort of drug and had been hallucinating the things that I saw, but I was too hopeful.” You wipe at your eyes. “The worse part about it is that you’ve trapped me, Bruce. What can I do? My life has become our kids, your company, and your mission. That has been my job since we’ve gotten married. I lived for us Bruce, why couldn’t you?”

“I didn’t mean to- I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he pleads. “She was just-”

“This isn’t about her, Bruce.” You shake your head and make your way to the bedroom door. “I’m going to stay at the penthouse. Don’t come by. Tell Damian that I’ll come get him for lunch on Saturday like I always do.”

“Are you coming back?”

You look at his sad blue orbs and shake your head, “I don’t know.”

***

Damian was the first to arrive home. Bruce watched from the bedroom window as he and Alfred made their way into the house. What was he supposed to tell him? Not just Damian, but everyone. That he’d driven their mother away and he didn’t know when she’d be back? That he’d ruined their family? No, never that. How could he break his children even more than they already had been.

With a frown, Bruce locked the door to the bedroom and sat in silence and darkness. If he’d gone to the cave he would have opened himself up to questions. In here, for the moment, he was safe. No one would bother him here.

***

“Hey Alfred, where is mom?” Dick asked, taking a drink of his water.

“Yes, I would like to know as well, Pennyworth. It’s not often that you come and pick me up from school,” Damian started pushing around some of his food with his fork.

“Mom didn’t get you from school?” Tim questioned with a furrowed brow. “That’s her thing though.”

“Hence the question,” Damian replied with smirk causing Tim to roll his eyes.

“Maybe she got tired of you being a smartass and didn’t feel like being bothered,” Jason adds in with a raised eyebrow and a smirk of his own as he rocks back on the legs of his chair.

“Unlikely, considering I’m her favorite,” the youngest said crossing his arms over his chest. “Besides, I haven’t seen her at all, not since this morning.”

“What?” The three older boys questioned alarmed.

“Alfred?” Dick questions again to the older man who hasn’t raised his head from his plate since the questioning started. “Where is mom?”

“I’m afraid, Master Grayson, that it would be best if you went to ask Master Wayne,” the butler deflects.

“Has something happened to, mom?” Tim asks seriously.

“I cannot answer that,” Alfred replies again.

In frustration Jason pushes away from the dining room table to make his way up to the master bedroom, the other boys following quickly behind him.

It only takes a minute for Jason to stomp his way to the bedroom and even less for him to begin banging on the door.

“Open the door up, old man” He starts impatiently. “We just want to know where mom is.”

There is a pause as the boys listen for movement, and when there isn’t any Jason pounds on the door again, “I’ll break the door open!”

“Jason!” Dick scolds. “Mom will be mad if you break her door.”

“Well how else am I supposed to get him to open it?”

“We could use our brains?” Tim suggests.

“No need,” Damian says pulling out his blade and shoving it in the jam of the door. He uses his weight as pressure and pops open the door.

“That still counts as messing up the door,” Dick says pointing at the ruined lock.

“It’s still intact isn’t it?”

“Whatever.”

Tim pushes open the door giving way to the light from the hallway to flood into the dark room. Tim quickly finds the light switch and the room lights up.

“Father?” Damian questions when the lights flicker on and he sees the man sitting on the edge of his bed with his head in hands.

The man doesn’t respond to his name being called and this sends the boys into a slight panic. Dick quickly walks over and places a large hand on Bruce’s shoulder and tries to shake him out of his trance.

The man looks at the boys and sadness flashes in his eyes as he realizes he has to explain how he’s taken their mother from them.

“Where is mom?” Tim asks.

Damian watches from a distance and takes in the state of the room. On the occasions that he’d have nightmares, he usually finds himself in his parents bed snuggled against his mother in the expansive bed as she protected him from the dreams. He probably knew better than anyone what their bedroom was supposed to look like.He noted that the dresser was suspiciously bare of his mother’s jewelry boxes and perfume bottles.  He casts a quick glance at Jason who seems to realize that something is off about the room.

Damian walks around the bed to his mother’s closet and opens it only find it empty. Jason stands behind his youngest brother staring at the empty room perplexed.

“This is her’s,” Damian mutters, “Where is her stuff?”

When it clicks for Jason he’s consumed with rage and he’s stomping over to Bruce again and pushing his startled brothers away. His large hand is around Bruce’s collar in an instant and he’s pulling the man up.

“What did you do? Why did she leave?” Jason questions acidly, his own blue eyes clashing violently with Bruce’s.

“Leave?” Dick questions. “How do you know she left?”

“Majority of Ummi’s things are gone. Like they were packed up.”

“She left us?” Tim questions swallowing thickly.

“I’m pretty sure she left him!” Jason hisses shaking the man who is still staring blankly at him. “What did you do?”

“What could you have done to make her leave like this?” Tim asks.

Dick examines his adoptive father keenly as he runs the scenarios through his mind. His mother adored Bruce, so why would she just leave?

Seemingly having enough of being pushed around Bruce quickly wraps his hand around Jason’s wrists and squeezed before ripping the hand off of his collar. The stretched fabric falls limply around his neck as he looks at the four of his sons angrily.

“You all need to leave,” He says sternly. “Your mother is safe.”

Dick’s gaze falls onto where the collar hangs limply at Bruce’s neck and he spots a purple bruise on his neck that causes a thought to run through his mind and it makes his hair stand on end.

“You wouldn’t,” Dick says with a shake of his head and a disbelieving smile. “You couldn’t, not to Mom, right?”

“What are talking about, Grayson?” Damian asks looking in between the two men.

Bruce meets Dick’s gaze and the younger man feels himself getting hot with anger the longer he holds his gaze.

Tim examines his father and finds the same bruise on Bruce’s neck and he puts it together. Instead of letting his anger consume him he glances back at his younger brother and grabs his arm.

“Let go of me, Drake,” Damian struggles as Tim pulls him along.

“Alfred knows where she went doesn’t he?” Tim asks glancing at the guilty man. A quick nod is all he needs as he proceeds down stairs with the young boy.

“Who was it with? Viki? Talia? Who?” Dick questions angrily.

Jason snorts in anger as he realizes what his brother is implying.

“Selina,” Bruce responds after a long pause.

Dick shakes his head in anger, “I knew you could be an asshole but not like this.”

Dick locks eyes with his brother, “We should find out where mom is and go see her in the morning. I’m sure she wants to be alone now.”

Jason nods and watches as his Dick leaves the room. He stares down the older man for a second before stomping out.

***

It seemed like it was always raining in Gotham, despite whatever the season was. At the moment that suited you just fine. The wide open space of the penthouse was smaller than what you were used to but still felt empty. You were happy that Bruce hadn’t tried to come and see you, you don’t think you could have been as civil as you were if he had come to see you.

So when there was a knock on the door, you felt dread fill your stomach. You quickly padded over to the door and looked out of the peephole and saw the distorted visage of four familiar figures.

“Boys!” You say with wide eyes as you swing open the door.

“Ummi!” The youngest voice calls out as he leaps at you burying his face in your stomach as his small but strong arms wrap themselves around your waist.

“Damian,” you say with a smile, running a comforting hand along his back.

“We were worried,” Dick says with a smile and a shrug as he pulls a bouquet of flowers from behind his back.

“You’re all so sweet,” you say with a smile moving to the side and letting the boys into the home.

“We didn’t want you to be alone,” Tim says, “We also wanted to make sure your weren’t in danger.”

“Oh,” you say sadly and closed the door behind them. Damian let’s go your waist and instead opts to hold your hand. “I shouldn’t have left in such a hurry, I know it can be unsafe.”

“We understand, mom” Jason says with a smile. You meet his normally stern eyes and you feel your tear ducts well up. “Hey, don’t cry! I brought food.”

“We, brought food,” Dick pops in as Jason shows you a bag in is hand. “Tim set the table.”

Damian brings you over to sit you at the dining room table as Tim makes a place for the each of you.

Jason and Dick bring the food out and then sit down to join you.

“We’re sorry about Bruce,” Dick starts looking at you with a sad smile. “But we understand and we’ll be here for you.”

The boys nod their heads in agreement.

You smile at your boys, feeling slightly better than you had been in hours, “Thank you.”

[the-stories-in-my-head-95]

Always

Poly!Avengers x Plus sized!reader

Summary- When your boyfriend demands the two of you become open or break up you meet some interesting people.

Message- this is kinda based on a reddit thread I saw on tumblr. It’s the original avengers. So Clint, Tony, Natasha, Thor, Steve, and Bruce.  Should I turn this into a series? Domestic poly life? Maybe introduce other characters? Let me know what you guys think.

Warnings- boyfriend try’s to HIT the reader, he will also emotionally hurt the reader. Reader strong armed into an open relationship. Reader has Low self esteem

Word Count- 1331

“It’s this or we’re through.” Brock says and you start crying, he rolls his eyes at you.

“Okay.” You finally sob and Brock grins at you.

“I’m going out, lock up when you leave.” He says as he leaves you on the couch. You hear the door slam shut and you curl up on Brocks couch and cry a bit more. Then you lift yourself off of the couch and leave Brocks apartment. You decide to go to the park near your apartment, their you sit on one of the benches and try to stop the tears from streaming down your face.

“Forgive me, but I just can’t ignore a maiden as beautiful as you looking so sad. I hope that I am not overstepping or causing offense. But here.” A large man says as he shoves a hot chocolate in your face. “I am Thor, one of the Avengers.”

“Y/N.” You say as you try to smile through your tears.

Keep reading

[ellaimagines]

Heartlines Part III: Oh, wish you were here

Author: @ellaimagines Summary: Y/N is dead and she left three soul mates lost in their life.  Word Count: 8040  Pairings: Clark Kent x Reader, Barry Allen x Reader, Bruce Wayne x Reader. WARNINGS: LOTS OF ANGST, swearing, making something against someone’s will (don’t know if that counts as a warning, but just in case) A/N: Sooo sorry for keeping you waiting, but ‘Good things come for those who wait!’ and here you have a little over EIGHT THOUSAND WORDS. I’m so proud of myself. ENJOY THE ANGST, DEARIES!

My Masterlist

GIFS ARE NOT MINE

“No chance there”.

Clark couldn’t keep your voice out of his head, just repeating time after time:

“No chance there”

You didn’t trust him, you didn’t think he would be there, you lost the faith you once had on him… and it hurt like hell to know that you were right to lose your faith in him. The video of your torturing and… eventual death had really affected him. When he saw your death… he couldn’t stop crying because he had saved thousands of unimportant girls falling off buildings but he wasn’t there to save you, the love of his life, his true soulmate.

He loved you and that was so clear at the beginning of your relationship, he just couldn’t understand how it stopped to be clear. He used to show you much he adored you, how much he loved you… until Lois appeared. He didn’t blame Lois, of course he didn’t; he blamed himself.

You were a miracle, that much he always knew. He used to think that he would never find his soulmate in this world since he was from another one; no matter how much Martha had insisted on how the color of the heartline clearly stated that his soulmate was alive, he didn’t believe it. He thought he was condemned to be alone for the rest of his life, until you came into the picture. One day you just fell in the middle of the street and no one but him, offered to help you get all of your papers back into their folders.

“Thanks” you smiled to him when he gave you the last folder. “No problem, miss” he answered with a smile, too. “I’m on a bit of a rush now, but I feel like I should really give you something in exchange for your help, so would you like to go get a cup of coffee sometime?” you mumbled this under your breath, afraid of him rejecting you… but there was no way in hell he could reject someone as cute as you. “Although I don’t think you need to thank me anymore, I would love to have a cup of coffee” he smiled, hearing to your heartbeat going faster. “Oh!” you answered surprised and then smiled the way he would soon just love “Well, the name is Y/N and…” you said while placing down all of your papers carefully just to take a blank sheet of paper “Do you have something to write with?” you asked and he desperately searched in his pockets for his pen, to finally give it to you when he found it a minute later “Thanks!” you said whilst you scribbled something down on the paper. When you finished, you gave him both the paper and the pen. He took them a little bit confused and watched you as you took your folders from the floor “And that is my phone number… um, sorry, but what’s your name again?” you asked a little embarrassed. He found you to be extremely fascinating. “Clark, my name’s Clark Kent” he stretched his hand as a reflex. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Clark” you said while grabbing his hand. The moment your hand touched his, you both felt like an electric current going down your bodies. You both looked down to your laced hands and saw how one of your heartlines from your right hand illuminated, while his left one shined as bright as yours. “Seems like the pleasure is all mine, Y/N” he smiled, still holding your hand. “It also seems like that coffee is going to be moved to right now” you answered with a glint in your eyes. “I thought you were in a hurry?” “I was just going to meet my publisher, no big deal. We can meet tomorrow after I learned everything about my new found soulmate” your smile was making his heart jump. “I would love to tell you everything about me, if you correspond” he said being a little flirty. In reality, he would wait a couple of months to tell you his secret. After all, he wouldn’t want to scare you.   “You just got yourself a deal” you winked at him while grabbing your phone to tell your publisher you wouldn’t make it.

Keep reading

[ewanfuckingmcgregor]

Solo!Twins

Summary: Virgin!Reader has a lovely time sharing Kylo & Ben solo. (Praise kink, slight daddy kink, oral sex, face fucking, dirty talk, unprotected sex)

a/n: sorry matt i love you & @bambistiles this is for u nd also @stressedoutkylo

THIS WAS SO MUCH LONGER THAN I THOUGHT IT WAS GOING TO BE 1.8K WORDS BITCH DAMN

This was never supposed to happen. This isn’t how people have their first times..right? We were supposed to be working on a school project, but somewhere between then and now, it went in a different direction. 

Sitting in the Solo household was something that most girls your age dream about, the twins; Kylo and Ben were the talk of the town. They’d just moved in, they were both tall, dark and handsome, making every girl drop at their feet and bend at their will; except for you. Okay, you will admit they’re very good looking, but there are more important things to worry about. 

“Can you hand be the ruler?” You ask, glancing up at Kylo who was sitting there fiddling with a pen in his hand; lost deep in thought. You roll your eyes, leaning forward mumbling softly; “I’ll get it myself then” Ben was behind you, sitting there and he wrote down notes from his laptop, he’d looked up at the right time; he had a very clear view of your panties under the soft material of your school skirt. He let out a silent groan once you had sat back down on your legs, covering yourself once more. 

Keep reading

[moekyah]

Exo as Yandere

Warning: Smut, Angst, Dark theme and Violence cause you know…YANDERE. I also do not any gif. Anyway thank you for reading, please enjoy~!

Baekhyun : The Hyde and Jekyll Type :

His smile is feign with innocence. Charming and popular, Baekhyun would use his amiable personality to approach you. His objective was simple, slowly earn your trust and soon your heart. It wasn’t that hard to become friends with you through his sense of humour. And it is even easier since the both of you have so many common interest, like playing video games or nerding out about movies. But it was frustrating to be stuck in a friend zone within your heart for such a long time. Baekhyun may seem like a gentle and loving person to you but it’s all a facade. Deep down the other part of him was surging to come out. It couldn’t wait to make you his. No matter what type of competitions he have. In the end you would always came back to Baekhyun. After all he is your best friend. Your one and only soulmate.

“Don’t cry Y/N, He is a fool for leaving you. He doesn’t deserve you at all. You can cry on my shoulders as much as you want. I will always be here for you.”

“You think Y/N would believe you? I have known her for such a long time. With these pictures who do you think she will believe? This is just the beginning you know. If you don’t break up with Y/N, I will make sure you wish you were dead.”

Minseok : The Big Brother Type :

The first time when you’d met Minseok, you can’t help but to fall for him. He is very attractive after all, flirty and confident, yet still a gentleman, who wouldn’t fall for someone like Minseok? But because he was much older than you and surely more experience. You had gave up and dismiss all of your feelings as a simple crush. Minseok didn’t help out though, even though you were just a little sister to him. He had teased you to no end, making you feel things you shouldn’t always leading you on for no reason. You desperately wanted to move on from Minseok. But he was always in the way. Acting like an overprotective older brother, Minseok was the worse. Little did you know though, is that Minseok have feeling for you too, even more than one could imagine. After all he was always watching, from the very beginning those watchful eyes was already set on you. Big Brother is and always watching.

“No Y/N, you are way too young for this. Your parents won’t be happy if they found you going to place like that. How about I take you out on this Saturday instead? Should we go to that new restaurant? Or should we go the mall?”

“Didn’t I told you not to go to that party? Dressing like this…You even allow that bastard to touch you. You really want to see me mad don’t you? I should punish you. You’ve been a very bad girl Y/N. And bad girl like you should be heavily punished.”

Jongin : Hannibal Lecter Type : 

Jongin wanted everything from you. He make it clear of course, that he wanted you on the very first meeting. Confidentiality coming toward you unlike the rest. He would shamelessly flirt with you until you agree to go out with him.  A perfectionist at heart, Jongin will plan out every dates for the both of you perfectly, making sure that every moments you two spent together would be very special. It wasn’t enough though, already within weeks of dating, he wanted more than nothing but to spent every moment with you. He could not stand the ideas of you being with anyone else but him. You are his goddess, his one and only, his to worship. No one could ever loves you even more than Jongin. Your body, your heart, your soul…if those greedy eyes could speak it would probably said that’s it wanted to consume your very own being.

“I love you Y/N, so, so much. Let’s be together forever okay? I will always protect you, I promise to love and  cherish you till the end of the days. Please, please believe in me.”

“Y/N doesn’t know it but I really hate it when I see guys like you approach her. Really what make you think you could ever have a chance with Y/N? You’re nothing but a pig for me to slaughter. How should I do it? Should I cut you up and feed you to the dogs? No, I think I’ll start with your legs and feed it to you.”

Junmyeon : The Mr. Gatsby Type : 

What is use to all the money and power in the world if he can’t have you? Unlike the rest of Psychopathic Type, Junmyeon is the most ‘human’ in all of them. He understands your feelings, how your heart didn’t belong to him the moment you first met him. But it was okay, Junmyeon respect your choices. He loved you enough to let you roam the world freely. There is nothing in the world that he couldn’t do for you. He could buy you anything you ever wanted, his love for you is endless. If you like he would even kill himself for you. But as perfect of a lover Junmyeon is, there is just one thing he couldn’t stand, and that’s seeing you getting hurt. This lovestruck fool would do anything to protect you. If you were to ask he were willing to do anything.

“Don’t cry Y/N, please don’t cry. Can’t you see how much I love you? Please stop hurting yourself. Seeing you like this is killing me. Please forget about him.”

“Why must you hurt Y/N? Do you not see how much she loves you? I loves her so much, and Y/N, she loves you so much. I was going to let you be, I was willing to share Y/N with you…but that’s all changes now. You have hurt her too much. I can’t forgive you. Don’t worry it will be all over soon, Y/N will forget about you soon enough.”

Yixing : The Daddy Long Leg Type :

 Instead of interacting with you directly like the rest, Yixing would keep his distance when he first meet you. It wasn’t because he was afraid of rejection or anything like that, no, no, it’s just necessary that he find out everything about you first before the right time come. He must become the perfect man in order to woo you. Everything he do must be completely believable, so natural, like he have never meet you before. Let those gazes follow him, let them see how great of a man he is and that he is the man of your dream. Let them admire him and let them desire him. His plan was absolutely flawless after all. Playing the nice guy, becoming your crush, helping you secretly, and letting you find out all his good deeds ‘accidentally’. Who said you can’t create your own destiny?

“Ah Y/N, What a coincidence meeting you here, would you like some coffee? It’s my treat! How did I know that this is your favorite? Hmm…lucky guess, I guess.”

“Do you see that lovely girl over there? I’ll give you $300 if you pretend to attack her at 10:40 PM today. I will be there trying to protect her, you can beat me up as much as you want, just make it believable and leave within 10 minutes or so.”

Jongdae :The  Dr. Frankenstein Type : 

Jongdae was obsessed with you. How unfortunate you are to have meet a lover like Jongdae. Unlike the rest of Exo, this person wasn’t afraid of you knowing this dark side at all. In fact he had fully embrace it and using his kind feature this person would manipulate everyone around him. There was nothing wrong with Jongdae. It’s just that it’s you who haven’t realize how ugly and impure this world is yet. And so Jongdae was going to show you just that, he would show you the true color of those pests. Driving you insane and giving you madness. Jongdae knew well that he have to ‘kill’ you in order for you to be reborn completely. So until when you are able to compromise that Jongdae was the only person you ever needed in this world, by then you are truly his.

“There you go again, being so kind to them, you really are an angel aren’t you? Even if he is your boyfriend and she is your best friend must you give them that much trust? I’m only joking~They seem like really good people after all~”

“I told you didn’t I? That they was going to betray you. Look what you done now. Dirtying your hand like that? Don’t worry, you did nothing wrong Y/N-ah~ All you need is me, just put all of your trust in me. I will protect you”

Chanyeol : The Romeo Montague Type : 

There was nothing in this world that could tear Chanyeol away from you. A romantic at heart, every moment you spent with him will be fill with love and happy memories. Being wooed by his sweet songs, making you laugh, giving you lots and lots of loving kisses. Meeting Chanyeol was like a meeting of fate and he would make you feel like you were the luckiest girl in the world. But little did you know that this perfect boyfriend can’t help but to have a dark side to him. There was no way that he would let it happens, for this love to become a star-cross lover tragedy. Nothing could tear Chanyeol away from you. No one was ever going to steal you away from him. And if your heart ever to get stolen? Than Chanyeol wouldn’t mind dying with you, stealing you back from the person that had stolen you away.

“Did you dream of me last night Y/N? Me? Of course I did, how can I not think of you every minute of the day! You don’t believe me? Silly Y/N just how many time do I have to say that I love you for you to believe me?”

“Why did you look at him like that? Am I not good enough for you Y/N? You know that I can’t take it right? Do you really want to see me feeding you poison that much? Don’t turn me into such a bad guy Y/N-ah. I love you so, so very much.”

Kyungsoo : The Devil Type : 

With a face of an Angel. No one could ever doubt that he was a more of a fallen one. It doesn’t matter if you have a lover or not, in the end you could never escape from Kyungsoo. Tempting with you lust, filling your soul with envy, he will show you the way of wrath. In which your heart can’t help but to be consume with greed as fall deeper for him, letting you have a taste of sloth, only to leave you starving in gluttony. He loves it to see you degrading yourself begging for mercy and pleading for more. So forget all about your pride and all of your morals. Take a bite of this sweet apple and sell your soul to the devil. You can run away from temptation but never hid from it.

“I don’t tell lies Y/N, well not to you. If you wanted me then say it. I want you too. I will always be here waiting for you. So just come to me and I’ll be yours.”

“Were you jealous of her darling? Did your heart fill with envy when you see me with her? Did it drive you insane that you wanted to murder that person? Baby girl you should already know that my heart is only set for you.”

Sehun : The Prince Charming Type :

Sehun is the type of guy that you would bring home to your parent. Someone who all your friends would swoon over and talk about. He was the guy that would sweep you off your feet. The more you look at him you can’t help but to be reminded of a perfect prince out of the fairy tales book. But one should always be careful of what they wished for. After all happily ever after always came with a price. The moment you had fallen for this Prince Charming was already too late. One can only advise you to continue and remain oblivious to what was happening and continue on loving Sehun. Or else the beast will be awaken and you could never escape from this twisted fairy tales.

“Here have my coat. Yes, your friends seem nice. Hmm? Are you jealous? You’re silly you know that? Aigoo~ How can my girlfriend be so pretty even though she are mad at me?”

“Does it hurt? I’m sorry princess but you had brought this upon yourself, you were going to leave me after all. And now these chains are going to keep you here with me forever. I will make you happy, I promise.”

Anyway as you can tell there are a bit of English Literature refferences with in this post. They may not be actually yandere, but i find these characters inspiringly creepy. It took really long to make this but I wouldn’t mind doing it again. So if you have a request please feel free to drop it in my inbox. I hope you reblog and give me heartu~

[staple-soap-blog]

Scars

Genre: Angst | Soulmate!AU

Word Count: 11484

Everyone is born with a soul mark somewhere on their body. Their soulmate has the same mark. New technology has been developed that can remove the mark, but at great cost.

The voices resonating within the small living room blurred together into white noise and faded into the aether, leaving the abrupt thud of your heart stopping as the only audible sound. The walls felt like they were crumbling around you, and the velvet couch you sat on seemed like it was swallowing you into its depths, encasing you in a suffocating darkness. The pain you had suppressed for so long came flooding back, spreading through your every nerve. You felt like your chest had imploded and your bones were caving in. Your entire body had shut down momentarily as Sehun’s last few words echoed through the husk of your skull.

“I’m going to get my soul mark removed.”

There were muffled voices, a few louder than the others, but you couldn’t decipher what was being said. Your brain - consumed by grief - didn’t allow for it. Someone had placed their hand on your arm to try and shake you out of your stupor, but you could barely feel the contact through your numb skin.

But then, his voice called your name, penetrating through the void. That one familiar voice that for so long had brought you happiness and sweet memories, but now, it tore your very being apart. The words that voice had spoken had severed the few ties to him you had left. But still, his voice had so much power and influence over you, and it finally brought you out of your trance. You blinked a few times, and suddenly, you were returned to reality.

This wasn’t a dream.

Keep reading

[peariesque]

When people write x reader and reader is apparently automatically 5’0 😭 WHERES THE TALL GIRL REPRESENTATION

[geeksquade]

“He towered over you” no tf he did not.

[starlord-s]

waking up in a bedroom you’ve never been in before with a pounding headache initially causes panic, but when you smell a familiar cologne on the pillow next to yours you eventually put two and two together. your suspicions are confirmed when the man himself walks in wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, two pills and a glass of water in his large hands.

and all you can think of is how fucked you are. not only have you slept with an attending, but you’ve slept with the attending that everyone hates.

“morning,” park says as he hands you the painkillers, and you’re surprised at his gentleness. “you’re gonna have a nasty headache. i woke up feeling the same.”

“how much did we drink?” you take a large sip of water and swallow down the relief.

“enough,” he responds. “look, about last night—“

“you don’t need to do the whole spiel about how it meant nothing and you hope it isn’t awkward. we’ve never been friends, park, you don’t have to pretend like we are now just because you’ve been inside me.”

brendon is momentarily stunned, but he’s quick to mask his surprise, “okay. glad to know we’re aligned.”

after about ten minutes, you’re fully dressed and leaving park’s apartment without so much of a promise that you’ll see him at work. after all, it isn’t like he’s your attending. you work in the ED and almost never have to see him. he should be happy you’re so unbothered.

so then why is there an ache in his chest?

[lotusapple-xia]

꒰১ Dennis Whitaker x tall reader ໒꒱

✰ notes: Headcanons | fem reader | not proofread | divider credit | first time writing for whitaker!! i love the pitt sm and i needed to read something for a tall person

Dennis loves looking up at you. Whether you’re standing in front of him or if he’s on his knees, he loves seeing your immaculate form towering over him

Speaking of on his knees. Dennis loves pressing you against the wall while he’s kneeling to put his mouth to good use. You’re at the perfect height where you can basically sit on his face, standing up and face fuck him. Dennis gets lightheaded at your every thrust, his hands gripping onto your plush thighs. Silently wishing for you to choke him with them.

He loves seeing you wear heels. Despite your already big height difference and you being taller than the average woman, he encourages you to wear all the heeled footwear your heart desires. Platform boots, stilettos, you name it, he wants to see you in it. Bonus points if you pair it with thigh-high stockings. Man pops a boner at the sight so quick he feels lightheaded.

Dennis loves seeing your long legs splayed across his during your weekly movie nights. His steady hands massage your calves, fingers ghosting along your sensitive thighs, eyes focused on the size difference between you. Your beautifully feminine legs against his toned farm-trained ones.

Dennis leaning up for a kiss. His previous partners were never taller than him, so this change is exciting. He loves the feeling of your fingers tipping his chin up as you lovingly lock eyes with his sky blues. Your arms wrapping around his neck or waist bring so much comfort to both of you.

Burying his face in your chest is Dennis’s favourite stress relief. Doesn’t matter the size of your chest he LOVES it. And he loves the easy access. All he has to do is pout and sag his head a bit and you immediately coddle him by bringing him into your arms. Just as I planned, smirking as your warm embrace envelops him, your heartbeat firm under his cheek.

Never worry about feeling too big or heavy with Dennis Whitaker. He grew up as a farm boy and he’s getting good meals and a place to live. Dude is buff. He can and will carry you. If he notices you hunching in on yourself or making yourself smaller on purpose, he will carry you to show you he’s not one of those insecure boyfriends. He loves you. No matter what you look like or your size. He will squash every insecurity that’s brewing in your head.

In fact, Dennis takes great pride in holding you up as he fucks you against a wall.

Dennis never pays any mind to any teasing he may get. Some are gentle, friendly teasing from Santos or the Pittlings, but…some are more malicious. He always tells you never to pay attention to those miserable people. Dennis only cares about ensuring you’re happy.

During the rough Pittsburgh winters, Dennis loves wearing your hoodies and coats. It fits him well, and as a bonus, he can smell whatever perfume you use on the way to work through the warm fabric. You like to wear his clothes too, although not oversized, they feel comforting to wear.

The first time The Pitt staff saw you walk into work (because Dennis works too hard and forgot his lunch) just about everyone turned their heads towards you. Your sleek outfit and confident stride into the ED drew everyone in. When Dennis sees you, he grabs your hand and leans up on his tiptoes to kiss your cheek. He’s proud of his girl.  

When Dennis invites you out with his co-workers, he always makes sure you feel comfortable and shows you off to everyone. A few drinks in and Dennis is swooning, limbs flopping and leaning his head on your shoulder. Babbling about how pretty his girlfriend is, how beautiful and perfect you are.  You aren’t faring better as you sleepily rest your head against his, openly cuddling him like a small teddy bear. You like pressing kisses onto his mullet and trailing them down to his forehead.

Dennis Whitaker is a secure man and he loves his tall, sexy girlfriend!!!!

🪷🍎 Thank you for reading! Likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

[geeksquade]

God bless

[selmas-teashop]

Longing for Lilith - Part III

The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps. Still, Jud would have appreciated at least a vague indication as to where God was leading him, after a murder and an unexpected discovery throw his world and heart into turmoil within a single fateful night. Can Jud turn a blind eye to the truth now that he has taken a bite of the forbidden fruit?

Part I | Part II | Part III | Masterlist

Pairing: Jud Duplenticy x reader (female) 

Word count: 14.3k 

Warnings: Murder, blood, panic and confusion, (religious) guilt and doubt, breaking celibacy, explicit sexual content (including oral and penetrative sex, f receiving, unprotected), angst with happy ending

Note: I've done some research, but not everything will be 100% accurate, so please bear with me and forgive any creative liberties I've taken! As always, I'm super insecure about posting, especially since my expectations to finish the series on a good note are high. So I hope the tea is hot and meets your expectations!

Even before the knocking fell silent, regret crept upon Jud. This was a mistake.

The storm tore at your cottage's ivy, rattling the closed shutters as it did his soul. The weather a physical manifestation of Jud's inner state.

He shouldn't be here, especially not now, but he had to. All those loose ends, too many things he regretted, and punishments, not just divine, but legal, that would eventually catch up to him. If he didn't confess to you now, reveal himself of his own free will, he would never forgive himself. He had to gaze into your eyes one last time, drown forever in this memory of you, before the waves carrying uncertain consequences of his actions would come crashing down and rip him away.

That was the only truth his overwhelmed mind managed to grasp, the faint ray from a lighthouse guiding the ship of his spirit to safe shores.

Jud had followed this light, this goal, through the forest to your house, before he could even fully comprehend what he was doing. When the heavy rain drenched his clothes, painting them blacker than the night sky above him, and the blood clung to his hands, still wet and fresh.

He had killed Samson.

Over and over again, Jud retraced the events of the last hour, trying to piece them together into a logical sequence. The thoughts a constant mantra, following the rhythm of his shaky footsteps through the undergrowth.

The investigation with Blanc had developed into a distraction from his actual duty. Jud had to return to his roots and therefore rushed back to the rectory after closing the church, with a plan in his head and a note from his bedside drawer before his mind's eye. On the way, he had stopped at Sam's garage, caught by a sudden flash of light, and watched as Wicks - formerly a corpse, now a living man - strode out of his tomb toward Sam.

He had followed them. Wicks had knocked him unconscious with a jab.

When Jud had regained consciousness, he had lunged at Wicks with a knife.

Then darkness.

When Jud reopened his eyes, he had found himself holding the sickle. The sickle stuck in Sam's chest. Blood stained.

Jud had killed Sam.

It was the only logical conclusion.

But no matter how often he repeated these events, replaying them in his head, everything blurred into a haze of anger, fear, confusion, grief, remorse, and helplessness. What was imagination, what reality? Cold water seeping through his clothes, running down his skin, blood on his hands, heartbeat drumming loud in his ears. A deer fleeing from a hunter's shot or a wolf relentlessly hunting its prey?

Was Jud the wolf or was it the world? No, the world had been shifted a few degrees by God's hand at the beginning of the week, and now the Lord had turned it completely upside down, making it a bizarre mirror of itself. Nothing made sense anymore. So Jud went back even further in his mind, trying to piece the events of the last few days together into a logical sequence. The thoughts a constant mantra, following the rhythm of his swift footsteps through the undergrowth.

On Black Saturday: interrogations, all day long, until Geraldine's compassion overcame her ambition to solve this case as soon as possible, and she dismissed Jud with a well-intentioned warning.

A warning he was so foolish to disregard. When he turned on his phone for mere two minutes, a flood of messages for the Killer Priest swept over him. Hatred, contempt, and spite spilled out of the display in an endless stream of black pixels. But amid the deluge, a dove with an olive branch in its beak, a ray of light in the darkness. Jud immediately recognized your number among the sea of digits. A shabby gratitude flared up in him because his new number - which he had gotten after breaking off contact with you (a precaution on his part) - now concealed his identity.

He tapped on the chat. Two new messages. The first from Friday afternoon, the second just a few minutes old.

Thank you for getting me home safely last night. I'm so embarrassed by how I acted and I hope I didn't cause you any more trouble! Please tell me how I can make it up to you, another priest condemning me would be too much. Even for a harlot like me. (Btw, this is “Lilith” - Martha gave me your number)

I wasn't sure whether to text you, but I heard about Wicks' murder yesterday and Geraldine told me you're the prime suspect? I'm not certain what's going on, but I do know what it's like when people here gossip…can spread like wildfire. I'm sorry you're going through this. Don't know if this is appropriate, but if you need a place to relax for a few hours or want to talk to someone, my house is always open to you.

An offer that tasted bittersweet. For when Jud's feet inevitably carried him to you, the only place where he felt safe, longing to feel the warmth and peace that this message and your mere presence promised, they remained rooted at your property line, unable to pass through the iron garden gate. The sight of your cozy cottage, nestled between the trees and bushes, golden light gleaming from the kitchen window, only reminded him painfully of another terrible mistake, driving him yet into another crisis of faith.

His desire to remain near you had led to the violation of his vows and your feelings, not to mention a risky masquerade. Had you not shown him during your confession how he had broken his own principles? And now Wicks' mysterious, sudden death. Had he not broken his principles again by allowing the anger he felt towards the old man entrance into his heart?

You, Wicks, the lies, the hatred. A test of faith or rather a punishment for his previous transgressions?

On Easter Sunday, therefore: praying. In the woods, all night long, until he threw himself before the altar at Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude in despair, begging Christ to show him the right path, and He promptly sent him Benoit Blanc.

The chaos surrounding the detective's arrival was so extensive that Jud was surprised he even managed to write down the events leading up to Sunday night within an hour. On that day, he thought of you only once, when he decided to omit your role for his life in Chimney Rock, to keep the lie to himself because it had no bearing on the investigation, unlike his soul's peace.

The most important thing was this: Wicks was definitely dead. Jud had seen his corps with his own eyes and almost vomited at the sight of the white, lifeless body. Any doubt about this was out of the question. Jud kept reminding himself of this fact as he fled through the forest, the trees above him swaying furiously.

And finally, Monday, today: Wick's funeral. The mood had been subdued, strange - not the kind of quiet grief or tearful affection Jud experienced at other burials. An indefinable tension had hung in the air, one he was almost inclined to describe as underlying hostility, thinking it was directed at him. He didn't get any further in his deliberations, because as he carried the coffin out to the tomb alongside Dr. Nat, Cy, and Lee, you suddenly stood in the middle of the mourning congregation. Dressed entirely in black, yet not one of the vibrant flowers nearby could compete with you.

You had arrived belatedly, but considering your troubled relationship with the Monsignor, no one had expected you to attend, least of all Jud. He hadn't seen you since he had tried to confess on your kitchen floor and instead had nearly buried his head in your lap. Which he later indulged in the most sinful manner in his dream. The memory resurfaced at the worst possible moment, and if he could, Jud would have gladly sealed himself in the tomb with Wicks‘ corpse to bury this shame.

Mary, Mother of Mercy, pray for us.

When he stepped outside again, his gaze flew back to you against his own will. You stood next to Martha under the trees, protectively wrapping an arm around her petite frame. Surprisingly, she did not resist. On the contrary, she listened to the words you spoke to her, turned to you, her gaze open and vulnerable, her hand clinging to your arm seeking support.

Suddenly Jud understood why you were here. You did it for Martha because you had sensed that she would need you. The girl who did not yet bear the name Lilith, whom she now saw again without Wicks‘ doctrine in her heart, occupied by grief. Although he knew better, with Blanc's observant eyes on his neck, he watched you, driven by the desire to grasp even a tiny bit of the warmth you bestowed on Martha.

He needed it too, needed you.

“Sorry about your loss, Father. Here, sign on the bottom.”

One of the construction workers approached him with a clipboard, pulling Jud's attention away from you. He quickly scribbled his signature on the paper, his eyes repeatedly flitting back to you, his thoughts lingering on your conversation with Martha, which seemed to have come to an end. You gently squeezed her arm, she nodded, clutching her handkerchief, and scurried away. Your gaze met Jud's.

But the construction worker interrupted again.

“Listen, between you and me,” he said, leaning in a little closer, “I don't care what the internet says, I think there's a chance you didn't do it.”

“Very comforting words. Thank you, James,” your voice rang out behind Jud, your tone tinged with a sharp edge of sarcasm.

In the brief second it took him to swallow the awkward expression of sympathy and tear off the carbon copy in one swift motion, you had joined the small group. James gave you a friendly nod and left. Blanc inspected you with keen interest from behind his sunglasses. Jud broke out in a cold sweat, the spring breeze doing nothing to ease his tension.

“Nice to see you,” he blurted out.

Blanc slightly raised an eyebrow, a facial slip revealing his growing curiosity. Frustrated with himself, Jud bit his tongue.

“I mean, um - I'm surprised to see you. I didn't think that, uh, that you would come.”

“Well, I'm not here for him,” you said, glancing coldly at the now-sealed tomb.

Right, you were here for Martha.

Then your gaze met Jud's, softening again, gentle as it had been with her. His fingers clutched the copy, the last remnant of poise melting away.

“How are you, Father?”

Blanc glanced from you to Jud. Probably because he was just as eager to hear how Jud would address that question. Just a polite platitude to brush you off, or an honest answer that would reveal something about the nature of your relationship? Unfortunately, he himself would have liked to know as much as you both what words his overworked brain would string together. His spirit yearned for the latter, but his mind, sharpened under Blanc's sharp eyes, argued for the former.

”Given the circumstances, I’m doing alright. Thank you.”

The polite platitude.

Jud could tell from your face that you didn't believe his lie, and he wondered how it was possible for you to read him so easily, even though you believed him to be a stranger. Perhaps it made no difference when one had delved so deeply into a person's soul, as you had into his. You may not recognize his outward appearance, but you could still see right into his heart.

“You know, Father,” you said, studying him intently, “even if James expressed himself poorly, he’s still got a point. Right now, there’s only circumstantial evidence, your guilt hasn’t been confirmed. So if you’re innocent, there’s still a chance to prove it.”

The wind rose, as if to agree with you. As always, you had managed to pull a string within Jud, to lead him, to spark a thought. You (and James) were right: his guilt had not yet been proven, there was still hope for clearing up this whole situation. For solving the murder.

An energy he had thought lost in recent days returned to Jud's body. If Blanc could solve this mystery with his help, he would be acquitted and finally free to confess to you, to cast off all past burdens, cleanse his conscience of everything. First the murder, then the lie. A plan took shape in his mind.

Jud stormed into the rectory, the carbon copy still in his fist.

“All right, everyone. Listen up,“ he said, all eyes turning to him. “Here‘s what‘s gonna happen: Benoit fricken‘ Blanc and I are gonna ask you all some questions, and you‘ll answer them and we‘ll get to the bottom of who killed Monsignor Wicks and why and then -“

I'll tell her the truth.

“- that‘s it.“

But the execution of this plan would have to take a few detours. The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps. Still, Jud would have appreciated at least a vague indication as to where the Lord was leading him. The confrontation of the flock had provided new insights, but raised a lot more questions. Questions whose answering Jud entrusted to Blanc, for while he was on the phone with Louise, another revelation came to him.

Road to Damascus.

Proving his innocence did not inherently demand that he make it his utmost priority. He had once again betrayed his principles and placed himself above his duty, prioritizing this case over his actual responsibilities. Perhaps it wasn't Jud's role to solve Wicks' murder, but instead to simply follow his calling, show faith in God, and atone in whatever way he could. Blanc should finish his game without him, hunt down the killer. Jud would return to his duties as priest of this parish, serving the people who needed him now more than ever, regardless of their opinion about him.

An act of penance immediately came to mind, one he could carry out right away. Something Jud had been putting off for far too long, making up flimsy excuses that weighed on his conscience as a clergyman. He would secure Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude against the storm, return to the rectory, and fetch the note with his confession for you from the drawer in his bedside table. Due to the weather and time, you would surely be at home like everyone else.

The deceit would end tonight, and Jud would regain his sense of self.

But the piece of paper remained tucked away in the drawer, because when he returned to the rectory, Jud became witness to a miracle, that felt like a calamity to him. The Lazarus door burst open before his eyes, leaving his mind as shattered as the heavy concrete.

Wicks had risen.

And Jud had killed Samson.

Startled by Blanc's voice and haunted by Wicks's face, taking shape in the sharp lightning that lit up the night, Jud fled deeper into the forest. He bolted through the undergrowth as the storm raged above his head, the world furious about its own injustice.

Or maybe it was justice. Whatever had happened to Monsignor Wicks, Jud had wished death upon the old man. With Sam's murder, there was no hiding behind the possibility of his innocence, the mystery of the crime. The rightful punishment would find the sinner.

Breathless, he stopped at a tree, the cold air burning his lungs, blood pumping hot through his veins. The vibration of an incoming call in his pocket nearly froze it forever.

Jud heard what Louise kindly explained to him, but he didn't understand. How could Wicks have ordered the equipment for his own tomb unless he knew he was going to die? His image flashed before Jud again and he fell back into the mud, the blood rushing in his ears and the thunder above him the only things that still felt somewhat real. He could no longer distinguish nightmare from reality, no longer find himself in this forest.

So the last scrap of sanity he could summon led Jud to you. The light shining out of the windows of your cottage, gently wafting through the darkness, his lighthouse in the storm. Whatever had happened in that forest, the consequences would find him sooner or later, but he still had a chance of making good on the plan he had left Blanc for in the church. His earlier intention, something he could cling to while everything else sank into uncertainty.

It was a mistake coming here now, of all times. But it was right to finally come clean. To make amends, as best as he could. To bid you farewell. Basking in the radiance of your presence one last time, before he would have to leave you forever. Jud had taken your confession a few days ago, and now it was time to relieve you of the burden of guilt as well.

Lord, I fear what may be revealed. Give me courage to face what I have done, and the grace to speak with honesty.

The iron knocker in the shape of a dove lay heavy in Jud's hand as he hammered it against the green-painted wood. The dove carrying an olive branch above the deluge. A sign that he might finally be on the right path. The rain pouring down on your roof echoed so loud in his ears, that it took him tremendous effort to focus on the sounds behind your door. All his senses seemed to be on high alert, his muscles tense to the point of tearing. He almost instinctively raised his fists, flinching as the door flew open.

A gush of warmth and light spilled into the night, framing your figure. When you recognized who was standing at your door so late at night in the storm, surprise etched itself on your face, but something else lingered there too, something that Jud's brain, torn between flight and fight, couldn't pinpoint.

You took him in from head to toe, graciously giving him some time to gain control of his mouth while you examined his mud-covered, wet, disheveled form. Then your gaze landed on the dried blood on his hands and flew up to his eyes in fright.

“I know it - this is... unexpected,” he stammered.

His tone was cautious, trying not to scare you any more than his appearance already had. He fiddled with his fingers, holding them in check because he was afraid you would recoil if he gestured as freely as he usually did.

“Whatever is going through your mind right now, I will explain - I mean, I will ah, try to explain as best I can. If you allow me. Even though I don't really understand everything that‘s happening myself.”

A breathless laugh crawled out of his throat, getting stuck halfway. Something shifted in your gaze, you stepped over the threshold onto the wet paving stones toward him. Presumably you said something too - perhaps his name - based on the way your lips briefly moved. But Jud didn't hear it, his brain working overtime in a desperate attempt to direct the stream of words now pouring out of him after the first ones had been unleashed.

“But I have to tell you, because if I don't say it now, I may never get the chance again -”

Yes, you said his name, but he couldn't stop now, not when the truth that had been gnawing at his bones for days was almost free.

“And you deserve to know, you deserve the truth -”

Again you called his name, a plea falling on deaf ears.

“And the truth is -”

“Jud!”

You grabbed his arm and he flinched. Panting, his eyes met yours. His heart stopped, the blood ceased to rush in his ears, every muscle froze, even the sky, the roaring thunder, paused in reverence.

This was impossible.

It had to be a mistake.

“Jud,” you said again, more quietly, pleading.

For the first time, his frazzled mind registered your words, truly comprehending what you had just said. His name, coming from your mouth, echoed through him, leaving small, shaky ripples, like a large rock thrown into deep water. Your gentle squeeze of his arm the only sensation that convinced him this was really happening. That you had said his name. Not Father or Father Duplenticy.

Jud. The name he had heard fall from your lips countless times, over the phone, in the garden in Albany, or late at night in his bed.

You knew.

You knew who he was.

The sky came crashing down on him. Filled with fear, his gaze darted across your face, searching your eyes for answers to all the questions racing through his mind. How had you recognized him? And when? How long had you known? Was it a conversation with Martha? Or Nikolai? Had Geraldine called you to warn you about the fleeing murderer? But if so, why had you opened the door? How much did you know?

But no matter what you knew, it was certain that you had recognized him. Your revelation was not the result of his confession, but of divine intervention or your deductive abilities, and so he was denied absolution. Your eyes reflected only the truth of his lie, and there was nothing left to do other than embracing the wrath this realization would inevitably bring.

Would you yell at him? Slap him? Throw him out, ordering him never to show his face again? Or worse, would you cry, demanding he give you a reason for his actions that he couldn't put into words?

His gaze was caught in yours, your breath, little white clouds of steam in the cold of the night, intertwined. Then you took a step forward, closing the gap between you. But instead of your hand flying up to slap his cheek, you pulled Jud toward you and wrapped your arms tightly around his torso.

For a split second, it was as if one of the lightning bolts flashing across the sky had struck him.

Shock.

Total shutdown.

But then, in an instant, all the tension in his body dissolved and he melted into your embrace. Juds hands clung to your back, face falling into your neck. He sank into the warmth of your body, the way you pressed him even closer to you, indifferent to his hair dampening your sweater with rainwater or the mud from his clothes sticking to you.

You embraced him. You held him in your arms, knowing who he was, right then, when he needed it most, and suddenly nothing else mattered for a moment.

“It's okay,” you whispered. “You're safe here.”

Absolution.

You held that wet, dirty, blood-stained priest close to your heart as if he were your lifeline, even though you knew very well that you were his. You had to know. Maybe that's why it felt like you would never let go of him.

And deep down, Jud wished you would do just that.

Feeling somewhat embarrassed, Jud studied his face in the clouded bathroom mirror. No traces remained, but he couldn't help thinking that you only had to glance at his face once and notice that he had been crying. You had probably already felt the tears on your sweater in the doorway, where they had quietly mingled with rainwater.

He ran the towel through his wet curls again and hung everything up neatly. The warmth had returned to his body, but the shower he had taken in your bathroom was only partly responsible. At first, Jud had turned the water ice cold to clear his head and then bathed his naked body in hellfire to prevent death by freezing or at least a nasty cold. He denied himself even the small comfort of a warm shower, the guilt still eating away at his insides. At least his appearance was presentable again, no blood on his hands, no mud in his hair - just soap-scented skin, damp curls, cleaned scrapes, and dark circles under his eyes.

After completely overpowering Jud with a single gesture of affection and leading him inside, you practically pushed him into the bathroom before he was able to utter a single word of resistance. Apparently, you had far less qualms about letting a blood-stained liar into your house at night than the liar in question himself. At least it gave Jud a little time to collect himself and process this latest shock, which joined the never-ending cascade of disasters that had befallen him lately.

Exhausted, he slipped into the clothes you had laid out for him. Sweatpants and a dark knit sweater, both items you kept in your closet in case your cousin visited you while passing through and, as usual, hadn't packed enough. That was just the kind of person you were. Someone who owned clothes for the sole purpose of accommodating a loved one staying over. Hesitantly, Jud sniffed the sleeve, the soft fabric carried the faint fragrance of your detergent, a component of the scent that constantly surrounded you. It reassured him to have something of yours with him, giving him the strength to open the door and sneak through the hallway to the living room.

His black clothes hung over a narrow wooden rack by the fire, still soaked but somewhat less covered in thick mud. You had probably rinsed them briefly in the kitchen sink to remove the worst of the dirt. The domesticity of this action warmed Jud more than any shower could have, but it was also accompanied by a guilty conscience.

You hadn't noticed his figure appearing in the doorway. Your gaze was fixed on the burning fireplace, the flames reflection dancing hypnotically in your eyes. Whatever you saw within carried your mind far away from your body, the feelings this mirage evoked in you remaining locked behind the expressionless facade of your face.

Jud cleared his throat, snapping you out of your dream or nightmare.

“Thanks for the clothes,” he said timidly, unsure how to continue.

You nodded, the hint of a smile touched your face, but it slipped away too quickly. For the first time since Jud had known you, you seemed at a loss for words. Perhaps because the initial shock of his stormy midnight visit had subsided and the reality of the situation finally caught up with you. Silent, he looked at your softly lit figure, counting the stripes on your new sweater, which you had changed into after the muddy embrace at the door.

Because you made no move to send him away or invite him in, Jud cautiously sat down next to you on the carpet in front of the fireplace and leaned back against the sofa, exhausted, mirroring your position opposite him. The floor felt much more stable than the cushion right now. Only the red in the pattern of your persian rug reminded him uncomfortably of blood.

He looked up at you. Seeing the concerned expression on your face didn't make him feel much better. Jud swallowed, his fingers dancing nervously along the hem of his sweater, running over the soft fabric like the beads of a rosary. He wished he had one with him now.

The moment for his confession had come, no prepared monologue, no paper in his pocket, just a dimly lit living room in the storm and his heart on his tongue.

“I -”

“Would you like some tea? I think I need some tea right now,” you rushed out.

Before Jud could say another word, you jumped up and fled to the kitchen next door. Through the open serving hatch, he watched you boil a kettle, add dried tea leavs, and place everything on a tray with two cups. Your movements seemed more erratic than usual, unfocused and nervous. It was an odd sight, since he was the one who had something to dread, not you.

When you returned with the tray, you appeared slightly calmer. Steady hands set the cups down and filled them with steaming liquid.

“Before you explain anything to me, and knowing you, I'm sure you're weighing yourself down with all kinds of guilt about concealing your identity and the state you arrived here in - before you do that, I need to tell you how I recognized you and why I kept it to myself,” you declared as you handed Jud a full cup. “So you can consider my reasoning before you say something you might regret.”

The last remark should have sounded like a warning, but it only carried a slight anxiety that Jud couldn't place. His heart pounded unsettled. He swallowed it along with the tea and burned his tongue, cursing under his breath as he set the cup down.

“I'm so sorry, really I am. I thought, no - I wanted to,” he stammered. Frustrated by his inability to express himself, Jud paused. You deserved a better apology than this. It seemed you felt the same way, signalling him to drop it, so he circled back to the matter at hand. “Was it something I said? Or someone else? Did Martha mention my name or…?”

Your fingers traced an invisible pattern on the ceramic in your hand. A wry smile crossed your face, a mixture of sadness and amusement.

“Every soul in this town knows you as Father Jud. I think I heard your name more often this past week than the entire time we’ve known each other.”

The shame of his foolishness crept onto Jud’s neck, settling there as a subtle red flush. Embarrassed, he looked down in his cup.

“But it wasn’t anything like that, actually. It was your tattoo.”

Jud's gaze flew back up.

The tattoo.

But this couldn't be, because that meant -

“I knew it was you since that morning in my workshop,” you confirmed his terrifying suspicion, holding his gaze.

Thunder growled outside, angrily hunting down a flash of lightning. An uneasy feeling spread in the pit of Jud's stomach, the warm tea transforming into a wild animal scratching at his insides, trying to break free.

He remembered how you had stared at his neck when the ink had shown above the clerical collar - the disbelief in your eyes, the way you had avoided his gaze afterward, your furrowed brow, as if lost in a thought. A thought you didn't quite trust. Then the inquiry about his name when you had seen him off at your door, how you had studied him, curious and hostile.

It had not been a trial of divine judgment, but solely your test, and he had failed, had allowed himself to be tempted into cheating. How could he have been so arrogant, to believe he could deceive you? You, of all people, who had been nothing but perceptive, who had seen through to his soul from the very beginning?

Lord, forgive my pride and my foolishness. Teach me the humility of Your Heart.

You took a sip of your tea, giving Jud time to digest your revelation, then continued:

“Of course, I thought the idea was ridiculous at first. But then you reacted so evasive when I asked for your name, and you didn’t exactly seem like the type who insists on being addressed by title and last name, like Wicks.”

Those two facts - the tattoo and his reaction - sufficed to plant a small seed of suspicion. So you called Martha that afternoon to ask if she had received the letter and, while you were at it, casually inquired about the new priest. You figured the chances of there being two Father Juds from Albany who used to box (and had neck tattoos) were pretty slim. You ended your report with a bitter laugh, a joke about God's weird sense of humor.

“I mean, of all places, you were reassigned here,” you said, “First the mix-up on the phone and then this - coincidences like that don’t happen, this can only be a cruel joke played by the universe.”

Your laughter was genuine, but the sadness in your eyes dulled its effect.

“I'm really sorry,” Jud murmured.

He repeated the words, speaking them softly like a prayer that was almost drowned out by the rumbling thunder, but the sincerity and pain in his expression cried out so loud that he was practically screaming them with his body. You evaded them, looking down at your half-empty cup.

“You don’t have to,“ you brushed him off, “Yes, I was angry that you lied to me, but when that anger burned out, all that was left was, I don’t know - understanding. I understood why you chose to pretend we didn’t know each other.”

Jud, on the other hand, understood nothing. The lie had not been a calculated decision based on logical considerations, but the spontaneous product of a selfish desire. Fragmented words of protest left his lips, and when you sensed his irritation, you added with more severity:

“The reasons why you broke off contact were justified. And no matter how we would have arranged things here in Chimney Rock, there would always have been a weird uncertainty between us, a tension hanging in the air.”

You paused briefly, unsure whether you should give voice to the next thought that hung on the tip of your tongue. Your hesitation worried Jud, you weren't someone who usually weighed their words for long. Always open and direct. Just as you were now.

“I think you lied to put a barrier between us, maybe because you thought we wouldn’t be able to keep an appropriate distance otherwise,” you said a little more quietly, your gaze still fixed on your cup. “And I played along because it was easier for me to act like we're strangers instead of facing our past and my feelings for you.”

Jud shook his head slightly, almost involuntary. Keeping his identity a secret from you had not been an act of restriction, on the contrary, it had been a means to stay close to you. All this time, he had feared how you would react upon discovering who the new priest at Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude really was. But this admission, your acknowledgement that you needed the distance this game of hide-and-seek had provided, was far worse than any scenario his mind had painted over the past few days.

Your fury or indifference, even your heartbreak, he could have endured. But not your tenderness. There was a strange cruelty, a particular kind of pain in it, because it turned you into the protagonists of a tragic story that should never unfold between a priest and a parishioner. It reduced your feelings to a cliché whose outcome was as certain as it was bleak.

”The confession on Spy Wednesday,” he murmured, “You weren’t seeking spiritual guidance or salvation, you were there to tell me...to tell me that -”

His voice trailed off, swallowed by the crackling of the fire.

To tell me I should find happiness without you.

The wood of the confessional enveloped him once more, the resinous scent of incense and your heartbeat clouding his senses. He heard your voice through the confessional window, trembling and serious. How you admitted you liked him, took the blame for your sexual - no, your romantic relationship - upon yourself, assured him and questioned him all the same, whether he was lying to protect you or himself, your fear that you might have corrupted him. You wanted him to cast off his guilt, be honest, and look ahead without regret. You wanted to let him go with peace in his heart because you had realized that he belonged to God, not to you.

I want him to be happy, without regard for me. I want him to know that.

It had been the farewell of a lover, not a confession.

The water, which the cold storm had sunk into Jud in the forest, threatened to rise to the surface again. He swallowed his tears with force, the salt scratching his throat.

“Yes,” you admitted in a whisper, as if you had read his thoughts. As far as Jud was concerned, you had, for to you he seemed to be as transparent as one of your stained-glass windows, his existence just as fragile in your hands.

“I thought - I hoped that would be the end of it, but then Wicks was murdered and everyone in town was talking about how you had killed him.”

Carefully, your gaze traced his face, your voice as dangerously cracked as Jud felt.

“And because you worried, you texted me?,” he added hoarsely.

“And came to the funeral, even though I would have liked to avoid people’s judgmental looks.”

Surprised, he furrowed his brow.

“You weren't there for Martha?”

A sad smile crossed your face.

“Also,” you said, and the warmth of the fire flickered across your cheeks. Or maybe the flames played tricks on Jud's eyes. “But mostly I wanted to see how you were doing after you didn't reply.”

Jud‘s heart flipped in a completely inappropriate joyful pirouette. Your expression grew serious again and held it back down.

“I still do. Worry about you, I mean,” you murmured.

A pause followed, the only sound fire as it devoured the wood, just as the tension swallowed all air between you.

“Jud,” your voice sounded calm and low, cautious. “What happened?”

Jud didn't know where to start, so he went back to the beginning. From Wick's murder to the moment less than an hour ago when he knocked on your door, soaking wet and covered in blood, he recounted every event as detailed as his memory allowed. It helped that he had already walked through the events on the way to your cottage, the sequence was as familiar to him as the experiences felt foreign.

Sometimes, a curious phenomenon occurred where one did not truly register what had happened until sharing it with another person. As if the reality became comprehensible only through the reaction it provoked in others. Your surprise at Wicks‘ falling out with the Flock, your nod in agreement when Jud told you about his phone call with Louise and the Road to Damascus, and your face consumed with disbelief at his account of how Wicks had risen from the tomb, made him realize that all this had really happened in the last 12 hours.

Suddenly, Jud felt incredibly tired, all the tension and confusion unraveling in his chest as if someone had finally given him permission to let go of it.

But when describing how he had awoken with the sickle in Sam's chest, Jud faltered. Unable to bear looking at the red of the carpet beneath him or the fire beside him, he made the mistake of meeting your eyes. The shock in your face, the distress it conveyed, bit into his heart like a wolf in a blood frenzy. He turned away.

“I don't know what happened to Wicks,” he whispered, clutching his fingers. “I don't know - I don't know if I was aiming for him or Sam, but I -”

Trembling, Jud took a breath, but all he inhaled was fire, burning his throat, tears welling up inside him.

“I killed him.”

For a while, you said nothing, your gaze fixed on a point far beyond his perception, just as it had been when he entered the living room. Only the soft patter of rain on the window and the crackling of fire mingling in the room. Perhaps you stayed silent because your thoughts and feelings were racing in all directions - grief for Sam, pity for Martha, worry how she would react to his death, fear of what would happen to Jud now, anger over his crimes - perhaps because you couldn't think at all, the gravity of the situation leaving you speech and thoughtless. Your gaze rested on his hands, the spot previously stained with blood.

Thunder hammered through Jud's tired bones, pumping his blood tenaciously through his body. He hung on your breath, waiting for the words that would pass your judgment on him at any moment. Then, finally, you rubbed your face with a heavy sigh and looked him straight in the eye.

“Okay, what should we do now?”

We. You had said we.

The relief hit Jud like an uppercut. He exhaled sharply, gasping for air, the tears he had been holding back rolling down his cheek. Hesitant, unsure of it's own impulse, your hand reached for his. The cups sat long cold on the floor, no longer a barrier preventing contact. It was a small gesture, but it struck Jud deeper than the image of Wicks‘ living face flashing before him in the woods. Even now, after everything he had confessed to you, you did not abandon him.

God loved him when he was guilty, and Jud had often preached about this unconditional love, which people should also open themselves up to. But receiving it from you still overwhelmed him. He felt greedy, unworthy, while everything inside him begged for it and drew closer to you, like water flowing downstream to the sea or flowers growing toward the sun.

“I, um.” He cleared his throat, wiping the remaining tears from his eyes. “I wanted to talk to you, to clear things up between us and say goodbye, and now that I’ve kinda done that -”

His voice trailed off, swallowed by your eyes, shimmering large and glassy in the flickering light. Two lakes lying in still sadness.

“Now that I've done that, all that's left is to walk to the precinct and turn myself in,” he ended the sentence slowly.

“Yes,” you murmured, also caught in his gaze. “That's the only right thing.”

Timid, as if this small movement might frighten you now, after you had accepted everything else, Jud's thumb stroked your knuckles.

“Do you hate me?”

The question was rash, impulsive, a childish maneuver that would only plunge him into further misery. If you said yes, remorse would eat away at him in prison, if you said no, the longing for you.

“No,” you whispered. The water trapped in the lakes of your pupils threatened to overflow. “I'm angry and sad for Sam and Martha, but no - I don't hate you. You're still just a human being, living under God's grace.”

Jud's grip on your hand tightened slightly, becoming more deliberate. He loved that you tried to comfort him with words he would have used himself, and he loved even more that you spoke them with complete honesty. You believed in the gift of His boundless mercy, even for Jud. Maybe especially for Jud.

But you didn't know the truth, at least not completely. For he still had one last confession to make, a secret he hadn't even acknowledged to himself nor to God.

“But we can only obtain absolution if we feel true remorse for our actions and willingly surrender to repentance,” he whispered. “And I - I don't regret everything.”

The sorrow in your gaze blurred, giving way to confusion and a spark of fear. Jud swallowed. There was no turning back now.

“I regret the dishonesty, my arrogance, the hatred towards Wicks‘ and Sam’s death,” he explained hastily before you pulled away from him. Then his voice calmed down again, slowly feeling its way forward.

“But I don’t regret meeting you,” he whispered, his eyes tracing your face.

You sat close enough that Jud could study every speck of color in your iris, smell your scent, feel the warmth of your breath. If he didn't free himself from this burden now, it would weigh on his heart forever. He had to say it, just once, so that he could let you go in peace, as you had wished for him in the confessional.

“I don't regret our conversations, knowing what your laugh sounds like and how you like your tea. I don't regret visiting you or wishing I could stay with you a little longer. I don't regret having sex with you, even if it was only over the phone, and I don't regret -”

Jud faltered, the last confession clinging to his heart, unwilling to be spoken.

“I don't regret -”

Gravity pulled him toward you, so close he could almost melt into you. You looked up at him, his soul laid bare before you, vulnerable, open, and raw. In your gaze flickered both fright and hope, and something else that Jud dreaded as much as he craved it. Something that urged him forward, whispering the following words softly on your lips:

“I don't regret longing for you.”

When your lips met his, it wasn't the powerful explosion or bittersweet pain his dreams had conjured. It was warm and gentle, slow but determined. You tasted of tea and fire, of thunderstorm and spring sunshine.

Sighing, he leaned deeper into the kiss, wrapping his arms around you. The instinct to be as close to you as possible gaining the upper hand as he slid his tongue over your lower lip, pleading. When you granted him permission, he groaned, the sound making you flinch.

You pulled back, already panting slightly.

“Oh my God, I'm so sorry,” you blurted out, your hands raised like a murderer who had just been caught red-handed by the police. Or a sinner who had suddenly become conscious of God's presence. “I don't know what came over me - I mean, I do know, but I -”

Your eyes darted everywhere, avoiding Jud's face, fire creeping up your cheeks.

“I kissed a priest,” you said, more to yourself than him, “Oh my God, I kissed the kindest priest I know, after promising myself I would not even look at him lustfully ever again, and now I - God, I’m a terrible person.”

“N-No, no!”

The words stumbled out of Jud, he grabbed your hand, placed it over his heart, as if that would gift them more truth. He said your name, begging you to look at him. You complied, albeit marked by shame.

“You're not terrible, I kissed you. I kissed you because I -”

Because I really fucking wanted to.

Jud swallowed hard. He couldn't possibly say that. Not because it was untrue or because of the profanity, but because the whole situation was just so utterly absurd. By kissing you, he betrayed his vow of chastity, but by suppressing this desire, he betrayed himself. But how could he stay true to Christ if he wasn't honest with Him and himself? Why had God created you in His image, in all that glory, if He didn't want Jud to worship you?

For a moment, your eyes met, lost in the radiance of flames dancing within them, not just those of the fireplace. The heat crept up inside Jud, dancing across his treacherous neck tattoo, which lay completely exposed in the loose-fitting sweater. He didn't miss how you looked at it, completely disregarding your promise not to stare at him with lust.

Then his gaze slipped to your lips and he involuntarily wet his own. Jud thought of that morning in your kitchen when he had smelled you for the first time and wondered if you tasted just as good. Knowing the answer did nothing to ease his desire. Quite the contrary.

Lord, You see my desire and my weakness. Hold me in Your truth and have mercy on me.

“Jud?”

Your question came out raw and quiet, moving forward with caution. You captured his gaze, the shame had vanished and been replaced by a certainty that was shy but undeniable. Jud's pulse hammered against your fingertips, fast and full of anticipation, a morse code only you knew how to decipher.

“Do you want -”

You didn't get to finish your question. It was embarrassing how quickly the pleading yes left his lips before they crashed into yours. Thunder and fire, so gentle and raw that it should have been impossible. Jud didn't know what your question had been, but he prayed he answered it right. Based on the way you returned the kiss eagerly, after a brief moment of hesitation, he must have done at least something right.

“Just this once,” he murmured against your lips.

An oath, to God and himself.

“Just this once,” you affirmed.

A prayer answered.

This time, you didn't wait for his plea, instead sliding your tongue between his lips. Your initiative earned you a low rumble from deep within Jud's chest, and he pulled you closer, one hand gripping the curve where your legs met your hips. God, your hips. Practically sitting on his lap now, little held you back, and you instinctively let them roll against his center. A slow, sensual movement that hit him right where his desire manifested itself, hard and relentless.

Jud thought briefly about all the things that had happened in the last few days, and although it should have seemed absurd to take this step now of all times, it didn't. All the doubts and guilt regarding you that had weighed on him were cleared, all confessions made, secrets revealed before God and each other.

Perhaps it was a selfish impulse, a moment of weakness, to reach for your warmth in his darkest hour and surrender to the desire that had tormented him for so long. Nevertheless, Jud wanted to hold you in his arms just once and hear his name fall from your lips in pure pleasure one last time. Just this once, before he confessed his last sin infront of worldly and divine judges and had to leave you forever for the sake of penance.

He leaned even more into the kiss, wanting to savor you until he never forgot that taste again. The only sin he willingly indulged in. You rolled your hips against him, and the movement alone was enough to make him come untouched. A dizziness washed over him, the pleasure of being touched like this after so long overwhelming him. You being the one to do it making it unbearably more intense. A soft moan escaped you as you moved against him without restraint.

Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.

In a bit clumsy but gentle move, Jud swung you from his lap onto your back, putting some much-needed distance between you and his crotch. A sound of protest escaped you, but he caught it in another kiss that had you running your fingers through his damp curls.

He had to change positions, otherwise he would have really come soon. But he needed you a little longer, just enough so that the memory of you - laid out on the rug, moaning his name, your hands greedily exploring his body, a body that God seemed to have created for this very purpose - would burn itself into his memory. Jud didn't know how it was possible, but your moans sounded even more beautiful in real life than distorted over the phone.

The thought brought back memories of similar situations, your heavy breathing, descriptions of hands wandering shamelessly to places he could only dream of from afar, black lace and goosbumps. An idea sneaked into his brain uninvited, a wish so obscene and tempting that he couldn't possibly give it a verbal form.

Breathing heavily, Jud tore himself away from your lips, letting them roam down your jaw and neck, searching for a distraction. Involuntarily, his body pressed against yours, six foot one of lean muscle wrapped in modesty and dark knitwear.

God, he wanted you so much.

Jud's lips teased a sensitive spot behind your ear, coaxing a delicious sound from you. Your nimble fingers slipped under the hem of his sweater, tracing a line up his torso, leaving a trail of shivers and arousal in their wake.

Shit.

“I - I want to see it,” Jud panted between kisses.

Your fingers stalled, carving a wordless question onto his skin. His head emerged from your collarbone, darkend eyes gazing down at you.

“Can you show me -” He swallowed. “Can you show me how you like it? Like before, over the phone?"

Someone else might have delivered those words incredibly seductive, but coming from his mouth, they sounded almost desperate, tinged with nervous anticipation and reverence. It was nothing short of a miracle it seemed to turn you on.

“I like it with you on the other end,” you murmured, without taking your eyes off him, your voice not laced with erotic intent, but full of quiet sincerity. You said it as casually as others might state the sky's color. A universally acknowledged fact.

An irresistible force, no less powerful than gravity, drew Jud's lips back to yours, a slight smile curling around the kiss. Then he pulled back again, leaving room for the intimate scene you shared with him once more. With the notable difference that this time it wasn't his imagination, but you yourself who painted the image of this pleasure. Even better: he could touch you, fuel your arousal with more than just words and witness their impact.

Jud's pulse raced through his body with eager anticipation. His hand traced small circles on a patch of bare skin on your hip, the gentle touch of his calloused fingertips making you sigh softly.

“Well,” you murmured, clearing your throat, “normally I would take off my bra first, but it’s after 11 p.m. and I was home alone, so -”

“I know,” Jud whispered.

He had felt that you weren't wearing one when he had pulled you on his lap while kissing. Soft curves pressing against his chest, a sensation that had wiped out any remnants of thought (if there had been any). What if you weren't wearing any underwear further down either? Involuntarily, an image of black lace wrapping around your naked skin flickered in his mind's eye, skilled fingers sliding underneath. Jud swallowed hard.

Carefull, he slid his fingers higher, quickening your pulse. When his knuckle lightly brushed the underside of your bare breast, your breath caught. You swallowed it down and it sought freedom in the form of a blooming rush of color crawling up your cleavage. Jud's eyes followed the pattern, his tongue briefly brushing his lips, impatient to taste it. But he held back, the desire to watch his dreams take on real form greater.

You let your hand join him under your pullover, guiding his hand on the wrist until he was holding your breast. The touch caused a small short circuit in Jud's brain, verging on shutdown, when he heard the whimper you gifted him as he grazed your nipple. Mesmerized, Jud watched your breathing quicken as your hand slipped from his wrist down under the waistband of your pants, unaware that his pulse was racing in sync with yours.

He absorbed every detail. How your lashes fluttered, the throaty hum you released, how your eyebrows furrowed slightly. Suddenly shy under the intensity of his gaze, you dropped your head to the side, suppressing a moan. Jud responded by caressing your cheek with his free hand, his arm propped next to your head.

“Don't stop, please,” he whispered. “You're so beautiful.”

Murmuring a litany of endearments and praise, his other hand caressed your breast and he kissed every inch of exposed skin available to him, following the your natural scent and the sounds of your pleasure.

Under his tender admiration, you became noticeably relaxed, unabashedly indulging in a game beneath him that sent you reeling to the gates of heaven. You pulled him closer, your fingers buried in his sweater, searching for support. Jud cursed the loud thunder - an expression of God's disapproval? - which muffled the sounds of your arousal and hid what was happening beneath your underwear from him.

“Can I -” he panted, “can I take your pants off? Please.”

Your absent-minded nod was all the permission Jud needed. His lips and hands roamed down your upper body, careful not to neglect a single inch of skin from his worship on their descent. Trembling fingers hooked into your underwear, reverently pulling down the lace and the thin cotton of your sweatpants past your ankles.

Your underwear wasn't black, the recurring detail of Jud's most sinful fantasy rested well hidden in your closet. But it didn't matter. He wasn't registering the color. At that moment, he wouldn't have been able to tell you the color of his clerical collar. A wave of awe and desire swept over him when he laid eyes on you spread out on the rug before him, washing away everything else.

With devotion, bent shoulders and heavy breathing, Jud gazed down at your half-naked figure, your face twisted with pleasure, your fingers diving into you with familiar movements. His imagination had deceived him, he could never have conjured an image of such magnificence.

Eager to take in more, Jud bent down, kneeling before the altar of your lust, his hands gliding over your leg. You gasped in surprise as he lay down and threw it over his shoulder, showering the inside of your thigh with kisses and praise, moving dangerously close to your hand and its game. It faltered.

„J-Jud?“

Your voice sounded husky, a familiar timbre that he had secretly longed for over the past nine months. Gently, Jud took your hand, ran his thumb over the back of it and kissed your fingers to ease your insecurity. You smelled warm, of soap and arousal, the trace clinging to his lips. Unconsciously, he let the tip of his tongue glide over it, the urge to taste you growing. Now that you had given him a sample, the hunger became insatiable, an urging, burning flame consuming him from within. Hellfire.

A single taste.

Just once.

Please.

Jud's head sank between your legs, no gravity this time, but a conscious decision. Eve reaching for the apple, hands buried in your flesh, tongue held out. Your moan an angel's choir.

A taste of the forbidden fruit.

Now that he knew it, he would never be the same again. Innocence was lost, Jud's eyes had been opened and he saw the truth. A truth that settled deep within him and silenced the war he had been waging with himself.

The way you cried out to God was anything but pious, your praise directed not at the Lord, but at the man between your legs. He drank up your pleasure, exploring the most sensitive part of your body with a fervor that could only be described as sacrificial.

Of course, Jud was not entirely inexperienced, but his time in celibacy had dulled his skill. What he lacked in technical sophistication, however, he certainly made up for in sheer devotion. Jud devoured you with the craving of someone starving, driven by your indulgent, unrestrained moans and the desperation of a man who knew this would be the only bite of Lilith's apple he could ever take.

Your breath was galloping, your legs trembling in his firm grip. He moaned inside you. Giving you pleasure felt just as good as receiving it from you. His hips rolled against the rug, a subconscious desire to come with you.

You were so close to the edge of fulfillment that Jud could taste it, and he wanted to push you over that cliff so he could seal this feeling inside him forever. The knowledge that this one time, he was the creator of your heavenly ecstasy. Hubris disguised as servitude.

But then you suddenly pushed his head from the place he most craved. A brief fear shot through Jud's pleasure-clouded brain that you might reject him, that he had done something wrong. Then he remembered that everything you were doing should have felt wrong, despite it being the exact opposite.

“W-Wait,” you gasped, clearly struggling to find your breath, let alone words. “Come here. Take that sweater off.”

Your command sounded like a plea, gentle and vulnerable. Although Jud was reluctant to leave your lap, he complied, pulled the dark knit over his head, tossing it carelessly to the side, and crawled back up to you.

Trembling, he rested his arms beside your shoulders, tenderly brushing a sweaty strand of hair from your cheek. His eyes scanned your face, anxious, searching for a look of discontent. But he found only affection and longing, perhaps a tiny hint of premature mourning.

“I want to see you too,” you whispered.

Eyes and hands took him in, consumed him, caressing up his arms, over his shoulders, down his back. There was no fiery desire in them, as one might have expected, but rather the admiring gaze of an artist observing a masterpiece. You looked at Jud as he believed himself to be looking at you, as if he was something precious.

His heart responded to the movement with a somersault, a smile flitting across his face. Jud knew you wanted him. Otherwise, you would hardly let him kiss you, let alone a few other things. But your quiet confession, as if you didn't know that he was at your mercy, body and soul, seeped through him like the first rays of spring sun.

He loved you so much.

There was no hiding it.

The thought, this truth he was trying to bury, gave him a little twinge, because the sincerity of his feelings did nothing to lessen the pain of the impending farewell. This rendezvous would be the only and last of its kind, you knew it as well as he did. When the night was over, Jud would have to repent, not only for every sinful act he had committed with you and those he still wished to commit, but above all for Samson. There would be no reunion, the memory of you a small light he could hold on to in his darkest hour.

So he did the only thing he could do in this hopeless situation and kissed you. Fire, spring sun, and the salt of tears yet to be shed. If he could hold you just this once, Jud wanted it to be worthwhile for you at least. His free hand traveled downward, over the curve of your breast, your stomach, lower and lower until -

The sound you let escape when his fingers slipped inside you was so delicious that he licked it right off your lips. For a moment, Jud had feared that his fingers might be too calloused, their skin roughened by years of box training and woodworking, robbed of their tenderness. So he moved all the more carefull, trying to mirror what he had observed before. His attentiveness seemed to bear fruit. You melted under his hand just as you had under his tongue.

It took a while to build up the momentum that you had suddenly interrupted, but Jud didn't mind. He savoured your reactions to the fullest, revelling in every sigh, every heavy breath. It almost became a game to make you moan his name as often as possible, engraving the sound in his memory.

When he sensed you were close, he picked up the pace, but you surprised him again with an unexpected move. Your hand slid down his stomach, searching. Jud flinched, suppressing a whimper. In question, he pulled away from your lips and looked at you, your expression full of mischief and desire.

O Lord, have mercy on me.

“N-No, you don't have to,” he rasped, “I just want to make you feel good.”

Your nimble fingers slid under the waistband of his sweatpants.

“But I want to make you feel good too,” you murmured.

When your fingers brushed against his aching erection, Jud almost lost his balance. This time he really whimpered. Loud. The thunder couldn't drown it out.

Teasingly, your hand slid up in one long stroke, pure, hot pleasure shooting through his veins. Jud's head fell onto your neck, burying himself in the curve of your throat. It felt so good that tears welled up in his eyes.

“I want to feel you. All of you.”

Jud couldn't tell if it were your words or his, but perhaps it didn't matter anymore. Somehow, with your help, he managed to free himself from his underwear just enough to sink into you, and everything after was a blissful haze.

His mind left him, and he lay in the arms of an otherworldly power as your flesh became one. All he heard was you, all he saw and tasted and smelled and felt was you. Tears of overwhelming emotion at the sight of such glory trickled from the corner of his eyes.

How could such an act of love not be blessed by God when it felt so sacred?

You had already been close, and for him, just a few movements brought him to the brink of desperation. Your hands wandered over his back, holding him close to you as he thrust in and out of you, your foreheads pressed together. Bodies joining in the way God had created them to. Not sinful or wrong, but simply human.

A drop of sweat ran down his neck tattoo and dripped onto your collarbone. The water rippled as you climaxed, your fingers clawing into his back, running through his dark curls. The sight of it, the way you furrowed your eyebrows with pleasure and moaned his name, enough to throw Jud over the edge with you.

Letting his head fall into your neck, he came inside you, cursing and trembling. A fractured wreck, heart full and head empty. He pressed his body against yours, both riding out the wave of your orgasm.

Then the movements slowly subsided, leaving only the crackling of fire, rumbling thunder, and heavy breathing in the room. Just then, Jud realized why the French called it la petite mort. He felt as if a part of him had just died, a part he would never get back.

Gently, as if you might slip away from him, like a wavering ray of sunlight in a cloudy sky, Jud raised his upper body slightly. With his arms propped up beside your head, he brushed sweat-drenched strands of hair from your face. Smiling, you leaned into his touch, but when you noticed the water welling up in Jud's eyes, you examined his face with concern.

“Jud, what's wrong?” you asked softly, your hand clasping his. “Do you regret it? Should I, I don't know - pray with you?”

A choked laugh fought its way out along with the tears. How could one not love you?

“No,” he whispered, “I don't regret it, it's just -”

His voice died. You swallowed hard, visibly fighting your own tears.

“I know, I feel it too.”

The sorrow of parting. You both had known it would come, and yet it tore you apart. All the more painful now that you had deepened your bond. Jud leaned his forehead against yours, closed his eyes, just like that afternoon in the confessional. He had to say it, even if it would only deepen the suffering. But he wanted you to know, without a doubt. One last confession.

His thumb caressed your cheek tenderly, and he kissed you. This time, the salt was truly there. Then he whispered the words against your lips, so softly that they would remain locked between you and him forever:

“I love you.”

A calmness, that had been foreign to him in recent days, embraced Jud as he took the last few steps toward the police station. The storm had passed, leaving clean air behind, the dark night sky resting in silence. The quietly gnawing indecision, which had taken hold of his mind and body since Jud had lied on your doorstep that fateful morning and that had escalated into a destructive spiral when he had found himself in the woods with Sam's blood on his hands, finally subsided. Bidding you farewell had left a gaping wound, but nevertheless - as cruel as it might be - it held a comforting certainty.

He loved you.

You loved him.

Now all that remained was to confess his crime, his sins, and devote the rest of his life to the task he had come here for: atone. The memory of you and that night a small streak of light binding his heart together.

Unfortunately, Blanc seemed to have other plans, completely disregarding Jud's intention to plead guilty. He shoved him out of the precinct with the determination of a man who had no clue about the tragedy that had transpired inside his companion. That, and a race against time, which played in favor of a killer on the loose.

A murderer whose reveal was as unexpected as it was tragic.

As Jud held the dying Martha in his arms, led her to forgiveness, and absolved her of her sins, the moment touched his soul. He felt Gods presence and prayed that she would find her way safely to Him.

But neither he nor Blanc could have anticipated what would find its way to Jud. Eve's apple, a glassy klink that echoed clear and light through the church, landing on the stone floor in the form of a shimmering pink jewel. After a moment of stunned silence and bewildered eye contact, Blanc stood up with his hands raised, buttoned his jacket, and left Jud alone in the aftermath of what could only be described as the most exhausting week of his life.

Uncertain what to do, he stared down at the polished jewel. He thought of Martha and Wicks, of all the events that had unfolded at incredible speed over the past few days, enough doubt and despair to fill a lifetime. He thought of Martha's reconciliation, how she had allowed Grace into her heart, and Blanc's words.

Grace for my enemy.

Jud thought of you and how he had felt like his own enemy over the past two years. He had fought against his feelings for so long, believing that God had tested him, as if you were an obstacle he had to overcome in order to remain true to his calling as a good priest. The Lord had sent you to him in his weakest moments - the evening he struggled with celibacy, the morning after he broke the window, Wicks‘ funeral, last night. You had always arrived in his life when he needed you most.

When Jud had prayed to God for guidance, He had sent you. What if you weren't a temptation, but instead salvation? An answer to his prayer?

Jud knew what he had to do. God had shown him the way once again.

The jewel was never found.

Cy could shout all he wanted, threaten Jud with lawsuits, spread rumors on the internet, and turn the church and rectory completely upside down. And, by God, he certainly tried. But no matter how many times his people or the police searched the buildings and surrounding grounds, they found nothing. They could have taken them apart brick by brick and the result would have been the same. Eve's apple was not there.

For what Cy didn't know was that, until Jud incorporated it as core of the cross in Our Lady of Perpetual Grace, the jewel rested hidden beneath a loose tile in the heart of a completely different house. A cottage built of dark brick, overgrown with ivy, with white-painted shutters and an iron dove as knocker on the green-glazed door.

The object of his desire in the safe hands of a woman called Lilith.

Epilogue - 8 years later

Even before the church bell rang out, fulfillment swept over Jud. This was a good decision.

He still had about an hour left until Sunday Mass at nine, but today he got up earlier than usual, sneaking out of bed at dawn because he couldn't contain his excitement. A delicate ray of morning sun fell through the darkened bedroom and caressed your sleeping face. The peaceful image coaxed a smile on Jud's lips. Careful not to wake you, he kissed the spot on your hair where the light entered your body. Before leaving the Cottage, he said his morning prayer, thanking God for another day by your side and praying for guidance and protection for all his loved ones and the people who needed it most. Then he filled the kettle and placed your favorite mug - the one with a hand-painted heart on the bottom - on the counter, already filled with tea leaves in a small filter bag for you.

You had returned home late last night, installing the windows had taken so long, you had had to call Louise to set up the floodlights. But you were determined to finish, driven by your promise to Jud that you would present him the fruits of your hard labour before Mass. You hadn't failed to deliver.

His eyes kept drifting back to it, unable to tear himself away from the captivating view. Two large stained-glass windows framed the cross, hand-carved by him, above the altar. The works of both your hands, joined in harmony. The center of the windows motif depicted a dove flying above Mother Mary, surrounded by rays of light that stretched outwards, tinged in every color of the rainbow. It had been a good decision, choosing the dove as focal point for the image.

The windows refracted sunlight streaming into the apse, painting small colorful circles of light on the altar and bathing Our Lady of Perpetual Grace in an unreal, enchanting shimmer. It was impossible not to feel His presence.

Between stolen glances, Jud covered the spots with the altar cloth, arranged the chalice and paten, lit the candles. Until his work was abruptly interrupted by a screech and the thundering of the church door falling shut. Surprised, Jud raised his eyebrows upon seeing the guest approaching through the nave, but his confusion quickly faded and gave way to a broad smile.

“Bishop Langstrom,” he called out, stepping a few paces toward his former mentor. “What brings you here?”

The bishop extended his hand and placed the other on top as they shook hands, a familiar gesture. Langstrom had never been a big fan of hugs, and Jud hadn‘t been able to convince him otherwise. God knew he had tried.

For a moment, Langstrom's gaze flickered up to your windows, visibly taken by their radiance. Then he turned back to Jud.

“Where is Father Thomas?”

“Probably still in the rectory,“ Jud replied immediately, concealing his curiosity quite well. „He likes to pray before the service and go over his homily one more time.”

Langstrom raised an eyebrow, but Jud smiled reassuringly at him, his hands clasped behind his back. There was no reason for the concern that clouded his face. Since Langstrom had sent Father Thomas to Chimney Rock as the new priest almost four years ago, he had progressed remarkably. The shy young man who refused to diverge even an inch from his antiquated code of conduct had grown into a steadfast but compassionate clergyman who was fully capable of leading the flock on his own.

“Good.” Langstrom cleared his throat. “Then I’d like to have a quick chat with you before Mass. In private.”

The additional comment stirred up nervousness in Jud. He instinctively straightened his button-up. Black, no clerical collar. His closet was full of black clothes - pants, shirts, sweaters - even all his shoes were black. Old habits proved hard to break, but it didn't seem to bother anyone. You once had offered to knit him a new sweater, should he ever want to wear colorful clothes again. A kind offer, which he had gently declined. Jud had witnessed your skills with the needle when you endeavored to knit baby socks for Geraldine and Camille with disastrous results. A fact you firmly denied.

Langstrom took a seat on a nearby pew in the front row, elegantly crossing his legs, and motioned for Jud to join him. He explained the reason for his visit, that he would be attending Father Thomas's Mass to inform him of his transfer once Easter had passed. It was not unusual for a priest to be reassigned to a new parish after a certain period of time, but the question remained as to why the Bishop chose to visit in person to deliver the news and what role Jud might have played in his decision. However, he had a vague suspicion when Langstrom inquired about his collaboration with the Father and if the flock had welcomed the change.

Since his laicization, which had been linked to his dispensation from celibacy, Jud was no longer authorized to exercise the priesthood fully, even though the sacrament of ordination remained valid. He was a priest in being, just no longer in office. The transition had been far from easy, the application process alone eating up months, despite Bishop Langstrom's support, both in terms of the bureaucracy involved as well as spiritually.

During their meeting, over a year after the reopening of Our Lady of Perpetual Grace, the fear that he might disappoint his mentor with this decision had gnawed at Jud. Langstrom had placed so much trust in him, had jumped to his defense so many times. What if he considered all this effort wasted now? But things played out differently. Langstrom had sat him down, just as he was doing now, patiently taking in the torrent of words pouring out of Jud, and when he had ended, asked him to sum up the reason behind his decision in a single sentence. Jud had thought about it for a while, his voice hoarse, eyes misty with tears, fingers nervously rubbing his clenched fist.

Love revealed a truth I couldn't ignore: it shouldn't exist in opposition to God.

Langstrom remained a good friend, even refraining from commenting on the story of how you met, no matter how much his tongue itched to make a witty remark. Some time after Father Thomas had been assigned to the parish, Langstrom had asked Jud if he still stood by his decision in good conscience. It wasn't a verbal jab or snide remark, just honest concern. Jud could only smile at his question. Of course, it hadn't been an easy path, but he was used to following an uncommon course. Challenges didn't discourage him.

The love he felt for you never diminished his devotion to God. Although he missed certain aspects of the priesthood, Jud found fulfillment in dedicating himself to the needs of the parish in the ways he could: Social work, church maintenance, religious education, catechesis, educational work, Bible study groups, prayer circles. Two years ago, Jud had even received his license as a state-approved grief counselor, and currently he was taking organ lessons because the music teacher who had taken over after Martha had passed was calling in sick frequently.

And yes, people gossiped, extensively so and sometimes nastily. The wedding of the ex-boxer and ex-murder suspect priest to the artist Lilith had fed the town with delicious gossip for weeks, and theories about who had seduced and corrupted whom were flying thick and fast. The local press had even tried their hand at a few attention-grabbing articles, with headlines competing for the tackiest puns: Holy Fight, Unholy Ending / From Holy Orders to Mixed Signals / Collar Off, Gloves Off: The Priest Who Didn't Stay In His Corner.

But like any fire, this story eventually burned out as well, once it lost its fuel because your marriage turned out just as normal as it was boring for the sensation-seeking population. Besides: it got increasingly difficult for them to feign indifference towards Jud's endearing nature.

It had been a tough process, but all the challenges and past pain of recent years had been worth living in truth before God and himself. Faithful to his belief, faithful to his calling, and faithful to you. After all the doubt, Jud had finally found another way.

“It’s good news, then, that the flock has taken the transition well,“ said Langstrom, his gaze fixed on the dove in the stained-glass window above him. “Changes like this are prone to trouble if the dispensed priest fails to subordinate himself or the flock cannot fully acknowledge the new one. Most bishops avoid this constellation precisely for these reasons.”

Well, if Jud had learned anything about Langstrom, it was that he wasn't like most bishops. Which led him to the actual purpose of his visit:

"From our correspondence, I judge the collaboration with Father Thomas has been quite successful. I've already decided on his successor for this parish, someone from rather...unusual circumstances. The candidate has few supporters in Albany, and I think gaining more experience with the help of a former colleague would be very valuable to him."

Langstrom cast Jud a meaningful glance. He understood. As a dispensed priest, Jud couldn't be an official mentor or otherwise involved in priest training. However, as employee of this church, he could be a good colleague, someone who shared his experiences without imposing himself, listened when a young priest sought advice, and exchanged insights with him about the congregation, its conflicts, and his struggles. Such a practice was not unheard of, but it was not exactly conventional either. But when had Jud ever been conventional?

He smiled, raising his hands in a welcoming gesture.

“I look forward to supporting the Father in his work here.”

Jud's smile spread to the face of his visitor, touching Langstrom. He nodded, pleased with the outcome of this meeting, and stood up. His gaze fell back on the new marian windows.

“Your wife's work, I presume?”

Jud didn't need to answer, the pride radiating off him was confirmation enough. He loved it when people called you his wife. He loved it even more when they called him your husband.

“How is she?” Langstrom inquired after your well-being.

“She’s well, thank you. Had a long job last night, so she’ll be tired today,” Jud answered. “And probably a bit sulky that I got up without her and she couldn’t show me the new windows herself.”

“Ask and it will be given to you.”

Your stern, albeit somewhat teasing voice echoed through the church, causing the two men to flinch in guilt. You had slipped in unnoticed through the side entrance, no doubt because you had checked the exterior view of the windows in daylight at the rear end of the building. A small angry crease appeared on your forehead as you joined the others. Proof of your husbands earlier assessment. Jud gently smoothed this remnant of your displeasure with his thumb, his hand sliding to the nape of your neck to kiss you, restraining himself to a small peck because the Bishop was watching. An unfair maneuver. You forgave him so easily.

“So, what do you think?” you asked.

“Beautiful, love. Truly.”

You raised an eyebrow, a mischievous gleam in your eyes.

“I was actually asking Bishop Langstrom,“ you said, turning to the guest. “It’s good to see you, Your Excellency.”

The bishop chuckled slightly, amused by the bickering and playful banter of the couple standing before him, that were clearly smitten with each other. He was wondering how Jud had even been able to hide his adoration for you in front of others until his dispensation had been granted.

“The pleasure is all mine,” he replied to your greeting. “And I agree with Jud, it's a wonderful piece. The details are beautifully crafted. I'm sure the parish appreciates your work."

Grateful for the sincere compliment, you smiled at him. With a nod, Langstrom excused himself, saying something about wanting to get some fresh air before mass. Obviously a flimsy excuse to give you some time alone.

The sun shining through your windows embraced you both in a soft glow, sprinkled with colorful specks of light. An unreal radiance illuminated you, and for a moment Jud thought of your wedding day, as you stood before him at the altar. Created to be loved, something almost touched by God.

You wrapped your arms around him, playing with a lock in the nape of his neck.

“So, I guess we're getting a new priest?” you asked softly.

Jud just hummed in response, not questioning what observation had led you to this conclusion, his mind preoccupied with your presence and wondering whether it was still too cold to cycle to the lake this afternoon and go skinny dipping. Your gaze searched his curiously, but he just gently brushed a strand of hair from your tired face, eyes full of tenderness.

“What?” you giggled.

“I'm really glad He sent you to me,” he whispered, tracing little patterns on your cheek and the sensitive part below your ear. You smiled up at him, your lips a smidge teasing, how he liked it.

“What if He sent you to me?”

“No, I'm certain."

Jud looked down at you with such warmth it made your knees soften. God truly had a strange sense of humor. From bizarre acquaintances to long-distance friends, over phone sex partners and pretend strangers to secret lovers and finally to husband and wife before God. Jud couldn't wait to see where He would send you both next.

Lord, Your love went before me and found me. You turned my wanderings into a path of love.

He leaned toward you, catching a white circle of light on your lips.

Jud had longed for Lilith long enough, now he was finally free to love her.

You ask: "But Selma, if Jud showered at Lilith's after murdering Sam, why is his face dirty again when he arrives at the police station to turn himself in?" To which I can only reply: "Because it's dark and slippery in the forest at night and no one has claimed that Jud has good balance after going through all that.”

Also, Jud being like: Blanc, you can go catch your killer on your own, I need to go catch MY WIFE.

ANYWAY I'm so emotional, you guys, thank you to everyone who joined me on this little journey! Feel free to share your reactions and questions in the comments or in my inbox! <3

Next up is a request for Jud on my desk and finally some more storys for Rings of Power.

Taglist:

@eliosberry @simp-hub @euqsia @sittinginthegardern @whistlef0rthechoir @climbingivy97 @onlyangel-444 @luxbub @antxnxlla @imsonotweird @boogjoogies @brightbriefs @nerdypinupcrystal @rainstorms-library @malkinse @justlenastuff @saltwaterburns @missotherme @teayuh05 @zweigsangel @ughhvix @litterallnobody @jujuondatbittt @shiimarisu @argentinemango @azarisworld @activate-drs @lunadi1una @asmodaya @xmenfan7 @mitsuhidesbeloved @the-mixedbag-blog @viscountessevie @ninabinna @schdxt @annabethpotter221b @lucciaa9 @insomniac-trash @daggeronmyneck @roseandthorns123

@lilredbird101 I did end up listening to Fliss „Coming Around“ while writing the epilogue! So thanks for the rec!

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[suigenerisisadiva]

Dead Air

Pairing: Batfam x Batsis!Reader

Summary: You passed in your father's arms. and no one will forget how you looked when you died. And after months of rotting grief, why are you standing there?

CW: ANGST, mentions of death, grieving, swearing, violence, injuries, travelling dimensions,

WC: 11k idk (this one is my longest fic to date)

NOTE: There is multi-universal travel in this fic, itsv type shit. On another Earth, Bruce dies instead of Batsis!Reader. Letting you know just for clarity's sake.

READ PART 1

The night is supposed to start like any other.

The cave is alive—screens glowing, engines humming, the familiar low thrum of readiness vibrating through bone and steel.

Everyone’s half-geared, muscle memory kicking in.

Ready for patrol.

Routine.

Something solid to hold onto.

You should be here.

Your suit remains in the cylindrical glass vault on the wall—Nightingale’s armour pristine, untouched. The matte black plating catches the cave lights in dull glints, the bat emblem symbolic on your chest, pink highlights and accents decorating your suit.

It's neat. Too neat.

Like it’s waiting.

Waiting for it's wearer to come back and put it on. Dick notices it first. His gaze snags on the suit and lingers half a second too long before he looks away Jason clocks it next. His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring, like he’s bracing for a hit he knows is coming. Damian doesn’t look at it at all.

Bruce steps forward.

“No patrol tonight.”

The words echo strangely against the stone.

Everyone freezes.

“What?” Steph says immediately, boots halfway on. “You’re joking.”

Bruce doesn’t blink. “I’m not.”

Tim swivels in his chair, confusion flashing to irritation in a heartbeat. “Bruce, we’re already running behind—Oracle flagged three hotspots—”

“I know,” Bruce says.

Jason lets out a sharp laugh. “So what, Gotham’s just on its own now?”

Bruce’s mouth tightens. “You’re benched. All of you.”

The cave feels smaller.

Tighter.

“For how long?” Dick asks carefully.

“Tonight,” Bruce replies.

Then, quieter, firmer: “Tomorrow too.”

Damian finally looks up. “That is unacceptable.”

Bruce turns to him. “You’re staying.”

"And if any of you try anything, I'll stretch that time to indefinitely."

The finality in his voice shuts everyone down.

Even Jason doesn’t push. Not when Bruce looks like that—tired in a way no sleep fixes, grief stitched into every line of his face. He looks like he's aged years in the past few weeks

“Suit down,” Bruce orders.

Reluctantly, one by one, they comply.

The walk back up to the manor is silent.

Boots echo against stone. Gloves are pulled off and shoved into pockets. Helmets are clipped uselessly at belts. No one says what they’re all thinking: that patrol would’ve helped. That punching something would’ve been easier than sitting with the ache.

They pass your suit again on the way out.

Cass’s fingers twitch like she wants to reach for it.

Damian pauses for a fraction of a second—so brief it’s almost invisible—but his shoulders tense, breath hitching before he schools himself and keeps walking.

The elevator doors close.

The cave disappears.

They reconvene an hour later in Tim’s room, still dressed half-for-battle, irritation buzzing under the grief like static.

Tim’s sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on knees, staring at the floor. Jason’s leaning against the desk, arms crossed, foot tapping. Steph paces, restless energy with nowhere to go. Cass sits cross-legged near the window on a bean bag, watching the city lights like she might memorise them. Duke’s slouched in a chair, hoodie pulled up, jaw clenched.

Dick stands near the door, arms folded, trying—and failing—to keep the peace.

“This is bullshit,” Jason mutters finally. “Benched. On a random ass Tuesday night.”

“It’s not random,” Tim snaps, far sharper than intended.

Silence.

Steph exhales solemnly. “It's 'cuz tomorrow’s her birthday.”

No one answers. How could they refute that?

Elizabeth Taylor Wayne, your pet Cavalier, pads into the room then, tiny paws soft against the carpet of Tim's carpet, who's room she frequented after your passing. She’s wearing one of her little pink sweaters—slightly crooked, like someone rushed putting it on. She pauses in the doorway, head tilting, tail wagging uncertainly before she beelines straight for Damian. (YO I LOVE DOGS OMFG)

Of course she does.

Damian stiffens as she noses at his boots, then sighs and crouches, scooping her up with practiced care. She settles immediately, licking his chin like she’s claiming him.

“She’s anxious,” he mutters, more observation than complaint.

Jason snorts quietly. “Yeah. Wonder why.”

Dick rubs a hand over his face. “Bruce thinks keeping us here helps.”

“Helps who?” Steph asks.

Yet again, no one has an answer.

Tim finally speaks, voice low. “He couldn’t even look at her suit.”

That does it.

The room goes heavy.

Dense.

Like the air itself is grieving.

Elizabeth squirms, then wriggles out of Damian’s arms and hops onto Tim’s bed, curling up atop one of your old hoodies like it’s instinct. Like she knows.

Damian watches her with an expression he doesn’t have words for.

“She was supposed to wake me up tomorrow,” he says suddenly.

Everyone looks at him.

“She always does,” Damian continues, staring at nothing. “She said birthdays should start early. That they deserve… ceremony.”

Steph presses her lips together.

Dick swallows. “We’ll still—” He stops.

Tries again. “We’ll get through tomorrow. Together.”

Jason scoffs, but there’s no bite to it. “Yeah. Sure.”

Outside, Gotham hums on, uncaring.

Inside Tim’s room, surrounded by half-packed gear, borrowed hoodies, and the soft breathing of a dog who misses you in a way she can’t explain, your siblings sit with the weight of being benched—not just from patrol, but from the one thing they all want most.

To outrun the day that’s coming.

The house knows before anyone says it out loud.

Wayne Manor is quiet in a way that feels intentional, like it’s learned how to mourn without making noise. The kind of silence that presses against the ears, that fills every corner until it’s hard to breathe.

Damian wakes first.

He always does.

Training drilled into muscle memory. For a brief, treacherous moment, his body moves on instinct alone—feet hitting the floor, posture straightening, already turning toward your room with irritation half-formed on his tongue. He expects to see your door open, light spilling out, you already awake and doing something infuriatingly normal.

Instead, the hallway is still. Your door is closed.

The realisation hits him in stages. Not like a blade, but like pressure—slow, crushing, unavoidable. He stands there longer than he should, staring at the door like if he waits long enough, you might open it yourself and give him a kiss on the cheek.

Elizabeth Taylor trots up beside him, soft and warm, tail brushing against his calf. She presses her head into his leg, grounding him. Damian exhales shakily and kneels, burying his fingers into her fur.

Her pink velvet dog bed isn’t in your room anymore.

It migrated.

Quietly. Over several days.

It sits in Damian’s room now, tucked beside his bed, next to Titus'.

No one commented on it. No one questioned it.

She sleeps there every night, curled close to him like she’s guarding what’s left.

Everyone has been taking care of her.

They take turns bathing her, brushing her coat, changing her outfits with the kind of careful attention usually reserved for something fragile and irreplaceable.

Jason complains the loudest but never skips his turn. Steph hums softly while she buttons tiny sweaters. Alfred puts her in a pink stroller and takes her to your grave every now and then. Cass watches her like she’s memorising her existence, Dick brings Haley over more often, for Elizabeth to have a girl companion. Damian's taken up replenishing her doggy bowl and upkeeping her insanely expensive diet you sponsored.

After all, she is the last living thing that loved you without knowing what death was.

Downstairs, Alfred sets the table.

He does it the same way he always has—measured, precise, unyielding in ritual. The grand dining room feels cavernous this morning, its long table too long, the ceiling too high. Sunlight filters through the tall windows and lands across the polished surface like it doesn’t know what it’s illuminating.

Your place is set.

The chair between Duke and Damian is pulled out, napkin folded neatly, cutlery aligned just so. Alfred adjusts it twice before he’s satisfied. He doesn’t look at the chair for long. One by one, they drift in.

Dick checks his phone as he walks, then stops dead when he sees the date. He doesn’t sit right away. Just stands there, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen.

Jason takes the seat across from yours without realising it, then stiffens when his gaze flicks up and lands on the empty space opposite him. Tim arrives last. Hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands. Eyes shadowed. He hasn’t been sleeping well. None of them have.

Bruce doesn’t come down.

Alfred pours tea.

He comments on the weather. Mentions a meeting at Wayne Enterprises that Lucius has postponed. His voice is steady, clipped, perfectly composed. He asks about training schedules that no longer exist. About patrols that aren’t happening. They answer him because it’s easier than saying anything else.

Forks scrape against porcelain. Cups clink. Damian doesn’t touch his food. Elizabeth sits at his feet, chin resting on his shoe, eyes tracking every movement like she’s afraid someone might disappear if she looks away.

The chair stays empty.

It’s Tim who finally breaks.

His voice is barely above a whisper.

“It’s her birthday.”

No one responds immediately.

The words don’t echo. They sink.

Steph’s hand freezes mid-reach. Duke swallows hard, eyes fixed on the table. Dick closes his eyes like he’s been punched. Jason’s jaw tightens, teeth grinding audibly.

Alfred stills.

Just for a breath.

“Yes,” he says softly. “I believe it is.”

No one wishes you happy birthday.

After breakfast, no one knows what to do.

They hover in that awful in-between—too restless to sit, too exhausted to move. Bruce still hasn’t come down. The manor feels wrong without him, like the absence of both father and daughter has knocked something structural loose.

That’s when they see the package.

Bruce stands near the base of the staircase, motionless, a medium-sized box clutched in his hands like it weighs more than it should.

Your name is printed on the label in clean, unmistakable letters. Ordered weeks ago. Scheduled. Planned.

For today.

No one speaks.

Bruce doesn’t look up. His grip tightens slowly, knuckles whitening. The box crinkles faintly under the pressure.

Alfred approaches quietly, like he’s walking up to something wounded.

“Master Bruce,” he says gently. “Perhaps… a game might be of use. The children could use the distraction.”

Bruce doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t move.

But he doesn’t object either.

So they play cards.

Uno, of all things. They gather in the sitting room, sunlight slanting through the windows, dust motes floating lazily in the air like nothing has changed.

Steph volunteers to deal.

She shuffles once. Twice.

Disperses the cards, makes sure everyone has the standard deck of seven.

Everyone has one. Yet there's one extra deck remaining.

One meant for you.

“Oh,” Steph breathes.

Her hands shake. She almost drops them.

No one tells her to stop.

She reshuffles, and deals again like muscle memory can carry her through what her heart can’t.

They play.

They argue about rules. Jason accuses Dick of cheating. Damian snaps at Tim for not paying attention. Alfred comments dryly from the armchair, pretending not to notice the way conversation falters every time someone laughs too hard.

Tim’s phone buzzes.

A TikTok.

It’s stupid. Genuinely stupid. A video that would’ve made you laugh. Without thinking, without pausing, he hits share.

Your name pops up automatically.

Sent.

The realisation lands a second later.

He stares at the screen, breath leaving him in a sharp, broken sound. The phone slips from his hands. He curls in on himself, shoulders shaking as Cass’ hand finds his sleeve and Dick shifts closer, anchoring him.

Later—after cards, after silence, after everyone drifts away—Bruce stands alone in the hallway.

He holds the package.

He doesn’t open it.

He stares at it like it might start breathing.

“I was supposed to give this to you,” he whispers, voice breaking completely. “I was supposed to be here.”

The manor listens.

And for the first time that day, it lets him cry.

After your funeral, it felt like there was a hole Dinah and Ollie harboured that they couldn't fill up. The penthouse is too quiet when they come back from your funeral.

It’s the kind of quiet that only exists after something enormous—after crowds, speeches, the weight of hundreds of eyes and condolences and hands on shoulders. The doors shut behind Dinah and Ollie with a soft click, and suddenly there’s nowhere for the grief to hide.

Dinah slips her heels off by the door without bending down, toes nudging them aside.

Her feet ache. Her shoulders ache. Her chest feels hollowed out, like something vital has been scooped cleanly away.

Ollie sets the keys down too hard on the counter. The sound echoes.

He winces like he’s broken something.

“Well,” he mutters, forcing air into his lungs, “home sweet—”

He stops himself.

Dinah doesn’t answer. She’s standing in the middle of the living room, still in black, still stiff, still holding herself like if she lets go she’ll collapse straight through the floor. There’s a strange exhaustion that follows events like this. Not the kind sleep fixes. The kind that makes your bones feel heavy, your thoughts slow and sludgy, your body lag a half-second behind your mind. Dinah feels it settle into her joints as she walks further inside, fingers brushing the back of the couch.

She can still hear voices.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” “She was such a beautiful soul.” “She loved you both so much.”

Dinah sinks down onto the couch and stares at nothing. Ollie hovers for a moment, unsure, then sits beside her. He reaches for her hand, squeezes once.

Solid. Real.

“She shouldn’t be dead,” Dinah says suddenly.

Ollie’s jaw tightens. “No.”

“She was supposed to come over,” Dinah continues, voice flat, distant. “To get back her airpods, and she wanted to borrow a dress. She said she’d already planned the outfit but wanted my opinion.”

Ollie exhales through his nose. “She always wanted your opinion.”

“She never listened to it,” Dinah says.

A pause.

“But she wanted it.”

The penthouse smells faintly like flowers—sympathy arrangements that arrived before they left, before they could stop them.

Dinah hates it.

It feels invasive. Wrong.

She stands abruptly. “I need to change.”

Ollie watches her walk away, shoulders squared, movements precise like she’s holding herself together through sheer discipline. He doesn’t follow.

Dinah goes to the closet.

She’s halfway through unzipping her dress when she sees them.

The handbags.

Lined up neatly.

Exactly as you left them.

Her hands still.

For a moment, her brain refuses to connect the dots.

They’re just bags.

Leather. Fabric. Accessories.

Normal things in the closet of a woman who happens to have a billionaire for a husband.

And then the memory hits her sideways.

You, perched on the bench, swinging your legs. “Dinah, why do you have so many black bags?” “Because black goes with everything sweetheart, your father knows that of all things..” “That’s boring. This one though?” You’d picked up the ridiculous beaded clutch, grinning. “This one has personality.”

Dinah’s throat tightens.

She slowly, carefully zips the dress back up and steps out of the closet.

That’s when the days start to blur.

The quiet mornings. The untouched handbags. The way Ollie stops cracking jokes when he realizes no one’s laughing.

And eventually—weeks to months later—it’s the department store.

Dinah hasn’t moved the handbags.

They’re still where you left them—lined up along the back of the walk-in closet in their shared penthouse, pristine and untouched.

Chanel, YSL, the ridiculous beaded clutch you insisted she needed because “Dinah, it’s cute.” Dinah passes them every morning and every night and does not touch a single one.

She tells herself it’s because she doesn’t need them.

That’s a lie.

Ollie notices first.

He notices everything lately.

Dinah feels both blessed and cursed to have such an observant husband.

The way Dinah’s fingers hover, the way she inhales like she’s bracing herself, the way her shoulders tense when she catches sight of something that still smells faintly like you—your perfume, your shampoo, your presence.

“You gonna rotate your bags or keep ‘em in museum formation?” he asks one morning, light, careful.

Dinah doesn’t look at him. “They’re fine.”

Ollie nods. Lets it go.

He’s learned when not to push. He feels your absence as well.

Queen Industries feels wrong without you. Ollie’s office used to be a revolving door whenever you were in town. You’d show up unannounced, feet kicked up on his desk, stealing his coffee, complaining about Bruce, asking if Roy was around, asking if Dinah had eaten yet.

You made the place loud. Lived-in. Human.

Now it’s just… quiet.

Too clean.

Ollie catches himself glancing at the door some afternoons, half-expecting you to barrel in with a grin and a complaint and some overpriced desserts you bought from that viral pastry place downtown.

But yet, it never happens.

The door stays closed. The silence settles.

He hates it.

That’s why he suggests the department store.

“Dinah,” he says one afternoon, keys in hand, “you haven’t bought anything frivolous in weeks. That’s not like you.”

She arches a brow. “I don’t need frivolous.”

“Okay, but want?” he counters. “Come on. Smell some expensive nonsense. Yell at me about notes and undertones.”

She hesitates. Then sighs. “Fine.”

The store is bright and glossy and painfully normal.

Dinah moves through it on autopilot—past makeup counters, past mirrors, past smiling employees who don’t know her world has ended. Ollie trails behind her, hands in his pockets, watching the way she moves slower than usual, like she’s underwater.

They reach the perfume section.

Rows and rows of glass bottles. Gold caps. Elegant labels. Too many choices.

Dinah reaches for one without thinking.

She freezes.

Her fingers close around the bottle.

She doesn’t spray it.

Doesn’t need to.

She already knows.

Ollie sees it immediately—the way her breath stutters, the way her grip tightens, the way her eyes go distant.

“Babe?” he says softly. “What’s wrong?”

Dinah swallows.

Her voice comes out quiet. Fragile.

“Y/N used to wear this.”

Ollie steps closer, his usual bravado evaporating. “Yeah?”

Dinah lifts the bottle, finally spraying it onto the tester strip. The scent blooms into the air—warm, familiar, unmistakably you.

Sweet without being childish. Sharp without being harsh. Confident.

Alive.

Dinah closes her eyes.

And suddenly you’re back.

You’re sprawled across her couch, kicking off your shoes, telling her about a gala you went to with your father and sister that bored you out of your mind. You’re hugging her hello, cheek pressed to hers, that exact scent clinging to your skin. You’re laughing, loud and bright, asking if she wants to gossip because oh my god you will not believe what Dick and Jason did.

Dinah’s chest caves in.

She makes a broken sound before she can stop herself.

Ollie’s arms are around her instantly.

“Hey,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to hers. “I’ve got you.”

“She smelled like this,” Dinah whispers, fingers trembling as she clutches the strip. “Every time she came over. Every time she hugged me. I didn’t even realize how much I associated it with her until—”

Her voice cracks.

Ollie tightens his hold. “She had good taste,” he says hoarsely. “Obviously.”

Dinah lets out a shaky laugh that dissolves into a sob. “She was our kid,” she says. “She just… showed up one day and never really left.”

“I know,” Ollie replies.

His own voice wavers now. “I miss her stealing my office chair.”

“She stole everything,” Dinah says.

“My clothes. My makeup. My time.”

Ollie exhales. “My peace.”

They stand there like that—in the middle of a luxury department store, surrounded by strangers and polished glass and music that feels inappropriate—holding each other while grief quietly wrecks them.

Dinah pulls back first, wiping her eyes. She looks at the bottle again.

“I can’t buy it,” she says. “Not yet.”

Ollie nods immediately. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s okay.”

She puts it back carefully, like it might shatter.

As they walk away, Ollie glances back once, then mutters, “She’d be mad we didn’t buy anything.”

Dinah huffs weakly. “She’d tell you to stop being dramatic.”

“Yeah,” Ollie says. “And then she’d hug us both and say we were doing our best.”

Dinah presses her lips together, nodding. They leave the store empty-handed.

The scent lingers anyway.

Just like the memory of you.

ON ANOTHER EARTH, IN A SEPARATE UNIVERSE.

You remember the night your father died.

23 days before your birthday

On another Earth, the night your father dies does not end when his heart stops.

It stretches.

It coils around your spine and stays there.

You remember the sound first—not the explosion, not the chaos, but the quiet after. The way Gotham goes eerily still when something sacred has been taken from it. Rain clings to your lashes. Your gloves are slick with blood that will never come off, no matter how hard you scrub later.

Batman is not dead.

But Bruce Wayne is.

You don’t scream. That comes later. Right now, you’re too busy counting breaths that aren’t happening, hands shaking as you press down, as if pressure alone could undo destiny.

“Dad,” you whisper, uselessly. “Please.”

His cowl is cracked, his face pale beneath it. His eyes are still open, unfocused but somehow still kind.

That’s what destroys you — the kindness. Even now.

Someone pulls you back. Dick’s voice cracks your name like it’s breaking glass. Damian is shouting, furious and terrified and far too young to be watching this. Tim's gotten nauseous, you can't decipher what Babs is saying over your comms.

You don’t remember leaving the alley. You don’t remember the ride back. You only remember that Gotham keeps breathing even when Bruce Wayne doesn’t.

The cover story is decided before the blood dries.

You are not in the room when they say it, but you hear it anyway — whispered through walls, through Alfred’s careful silences, through the way everyone avoids your eyes.

A drug overdose. Suspected suicide.

The words feel obscene.

Bruce Wayne, philanthropist. Bruce Wayne, troubled billionaire. Bruce Wayne, fallen icon. Bruce Wayne, a father, who is now dead.

The media eats it alive.

They speculate. They pity. They dissect his life like it belongs to them.

You sit at the long dining table and stare at the empty chair at the head.

He died in an alley protecting his city.

And the world thinks he gave up.

Parallel lines you don’t yet have the words for twist tight in your chest.

The funeral is public.

Of course it fucking is.

Bruce Wayne deserves marble steps and black umbrellas and a sea of faces pretending they understand loss and better yet, pretending they knew who he was.

You're holding your dog, and Ace and standing beside Dick, who hasn’t slept. Damian is rigid on your other side, small hand fisted in the fabric of your coat like he might fall apart if he lets go. Tim looks hollow. Cass watches everything with eyes too sharp. Steph cries quietly. Jason doesn’t look at the coffin at all.

They speak of Bruce Wayne’s achievements. They speak of his generosity. His legacy. His struggles.

They do not speak of Batman. They do not speak of the man who taught you how to breathe through pain.

When the casket is lowered, something inside you follows it.

Later, when the cameras are gone and the world finally leaves you alone, you break.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

You fold in on yourself in a hallway at Wayne Manor, hands pressed to your mouth to keep the sound in. Your knees hit the floor. Alfred finds you there and doesn’t say a word.

He just kneels, dignified even in grief, and holds you like you are still a child who scraped her knee.

“I am so very sorry, Miss,” he murmurs.

You nod because if you speak, you will drown.

The days after blur into responsibility.

Someone has to take over Wayne Enterprises.

That someone is you.

Board members test you at first — subtle, patronising, polite. You shut it down quickly. You wear black like armour. You speak carefully.

You do not cry in meetings. Tim's by your side more often then not.

At night, you sit in Bruce’s study with the lights off, listening to the house settle.

You don’t touch anything. It feels like trespassing.

Dick becomes Batman because Gotham doesn’t wait for grief.

You watch him leave the cave the first night, cape settling over his shoulders in a way that makes your chest ache.

He pauses at the steps.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he says quietly.

“I know,” you reply.

But you do it anyway.

Damian stops sleeping through the night.

He ends up in your room more often than not, curled tight and furious with the world, he holds you like you'll disappear as well. You brush his hair back like Bruce used to. You never mention it.

You become the constant in all their lives.

Joining the PTA for Duke regardless of how much you hate Margie and all the other middle-aged women. Showing up to Cass' ballet recitals. Taking Damian to piano classes and his swimming lessons. Helping Jason on the occasional mission, and the occasional hangover.

And it costs you more than you let on.

You and Dick ramp up your presence at the Watchtower.

Initiating meetings, scheduling timetables, emails with the UN.

Even though the two of you are heavily respected, all your league members look at you the same.

Two kids who lost their dad.

And now they're paying the price for his absence.

Dinah and Ollie are the ones who notice first.

Because of course they are.

They show up without warning, no fanfare, just familiar noise cutting through the manor’s oppressive quiet.

Ollie complains about the driveway. Dinah hugs you hard enough that your breath stutters.

They don’t ask you to be strong. They don’t ask you to talk. They just stay.

Something you took for granted quite frankly.

You end up in Star City more often than you expect — weekends at first, then longer stretches. Dinah teaches you how to breathe again, slow and deliberate. Ollie distracts Damian with archery and loud jokes and the kind of fatherly affection that doesn’t demand anything back.

You sit on their couch one night, exhausted, head tipped back, and Dinah drapes a blanket over you without comment.

“You’re allowed to rest sweetie,” she says softly.

You don’t answer.

But you stay.

They become your anchors — not because they fix anything, but because they don’t try to.

Because they remember Bruce without making him a ghost.

Because they look at you and still see you, not just the weight you’re carrying.

When you laugh — really laugh — for the first time in weeks, it startles you.

Ollie grins like he’s won something.

“There she is,” he says

This past weekend, you've been staying with Dinah and Ollie, it was the perfect opportunity as Dick's on a solo mission with the Titans, Tim and Damian are with the Kents, Jason's with the Outlaws and Steph and Cass are preoccupied with Babs on girls night, they were gutted you couldn't come with, but they weren't gonna stop you from being with Ollie and Dinah. They knew how much you relied on them.

Star City feels wrong before you ever see it.

It’s subtle at first.

The way the air hums just a fraction too loud, like the city itself is vibrating under your skin. The sky is clear, but it feels watched.

You stand on the balcony of Ollie’s penthouse, coffee cooling untouched in your hand, and you can’t shake the sense that something is leaning toward you.

Waiting.

Dinah notices because Dinah always notices.

“You’re doing that thing,” she says, leaning against the doorframe. Her voice is gentle, but her eyes are sharp.

You glance back. “What thing?”

“The staring-into-the-middle-distance-like-the-universe-is-about-to-punch-you thing.”

You huff a weak laugh. “Didn’t know I was that obvious.”

“To me? Always.” She steps closer, her shoulder brushing yours. “You been sleeping?”

You hesitate. That’s answer enough.

Below, Star City moves like nothing is wrong.

Cars. People. Normalcy.

It makes your teeth ache.

“I don’t like this,” you say finally.

Dinah doesn’t ask what this is.

“Neither do I,” she replies.

Inside, Ollie’s on the phone, voice low, humour stripped clean. When he sees your expression, he ends the call immediately.

“What,” he asks. Not joking. Not loud.

Just what.

“There’s something in the Glades,” Dinah says before you can. “I can feel it.”

Ollie exhales through his nose. “Merlyn.”

The name lands like a bruise.

You straighten instinctively. “You’re sure?”

“No,” Ollie admits. “But I’m never wrong when it matters.”

The lights flicker.

Once.

Twice.

You all freeze.

That hum you felt earlier deepens, crawling into your bones, vibrating behind your eyes.

Somewhere far away—too far to pinpoint—metal screams.

You don’t say it.

But you’re already reaching for your gear.

The facility isn’t marked on any public map.

It sits half-buried in concrete and steel, a scar stitched into the city’s underbelly. The closer you get, the louder the sound becomes — not noise exactly, but pressure. Like reality being squeezed through a needle’s eye.

Your comm crackles.

“Energy readings are off the charts,” Dinah says, voice tight. “This isn’t just tech.”

“No,” you murmur. “It’s worse.”

The entrance yawns open, heat rolling out in waves. Inside, the air shimmers, bending light in ways your brain doesn’t like. Your head throbs. Your teeth buzz.

Ollie draws an arrow anyway.

“Guess Merlyn decided subtlety was overrated,” he mutters.

You move ahead of them without thinking, instincts honed sharp by too much loss, too much responsibility. Nightingale moves like second nature — quieter than fear, faster than doubt.

The core chamber is massive.

Circular.

Wrong.

Spanning hundreds of metres in distance.

A machine dominates the centre, towering, spiralling rings rotating at different speeds, glowing with a violent, sickly light. Energy arcs between them, snapping like lightning with no thunder.

The air smells burnt, metallic, alive.

You gaze up at the machine

You hear Dinah swear softly. “That’s a supercollider.”

"It's a particle accelerator. Merlyn failed with the last two, this one's gonna succeed." You say.

Ollie goes still. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“I wish I was.”

At the far end of the platform, Merlyn waits.

He looks pleased.

“You’re late,” he calls out, voice echoing unnaturally. “I was beginning to think grief had dulled your reflexes.”

Your hands curl into fists.

“You’re going to shut it down,” you say coldly. “Now.”

Merlyn laughs.

“Oh, child,” he says. “This is the shutdown. Of everything.”

The machine pulses.

Harder.

Your knees buckle for half a second before you catch yourself.

Dinah grabs your arm. “You okay?”

You nod, even though your vision is fracturing at the edges.

“Split up,” Ollie says. “We disable the outer rings.”

You don’t argue.

You should.

But something in your chest is pulling you forward, toward the heart of the machine, toward the light that feels like it knows your name.

The closer you get, the worse it becomes.

Gravity wobbles.

Time hiccups.

Your footsteps echo twice, then not at all.

You swear you see movement in the light — shadows that don’t belong to anything solid.

Your comm screeches.

“Nightingale—!” Dinah’s voice cuts in and out. “Something’s—wrong—”

“I know,” you gasp.

Your head pounds. Images flash behind your eyes — Bruce’s smile. Damian asleep on your shoulder. Dick’s hand on your back. A coffin lowering into the earth. Another one. Parallel grief folding in on itself.

Merlyn steps into your path.

Up close, his eyes are fever-bright.

“Do you feel it?” he asks eagerly.

“The strain? The walls between worlds thinning?”

You raise your guard despite the vertigo. “You’re insane.”

“Yes,” he agrees cheerfully. “But I’m also right.”

He gestures, and the machine surges.

You scream.

Not from pain — from everything. From the sensation of being pulled apart at a molecular level, of existing in too many places at once. Your knees hit the platform. You claw at the metal, gloves smoking where they touch.

Dinah shouts your name.

Ollie fires an incendiary arrow that disintegrates midair.

Merlyn’s grin widens.

“You’ve been holding the universe together with grief and duct tape,” he says softly.

“You were always going to snap.”

He grabs you.

For a split second, you think of your father.

Then he throws you.

You don’t fall.

You are taken.

The world detonates into colour and sound and screaming light.

Your body is weightless, then impossibly heavy.

You can’t tell where you end and the energy begins. The supercollider howls, rings spinning faster, faster—

Your thoughts fracture.

Is this how he felt?Is this how I die?Is this how I leave them?

Your mouth opens but no sound comes out.

Space folds.

Time screams.

You're shot into a myriad of electric webs, seas of blue with sparkling rope.

You see cities that aren’t yours.

Skies wrong shades of blue.

Your atoms stretch.

Your soul lurches.

The last thing you feel before everything tears—

—is your name being ripped out of the universe like it was never meant to stay.

And then—

nothing holds you anymore.

You wake up on concrete.

Cold seeps through your suit first—through the plating, through the kevlar, through whatever adrenaline is still clinging to your bloodstream like it knows it’s about to be evicted. Your vision swims. Light fractures overhead, neon signs bleeding into each other, letters doubling, then tripling, then snapping back into place.

Star City.

You know it instinctively. The smell—salt, oil, rain. The hum of traffic a few streets over. The particular way the wind curls through alleyways like it’s learned the city’s bones by heart.

But something’s wrong.

Your ears ring, a high, thin whine, like feedback after an explosion. You push yourself up on your elbows and the world tilts violently to the left.

Your stomach lurches. You swallow hard, breathing through it.

“No,” you murmur. Your voice sounds wrong here. Too loud. Too real.

Your head throbs where it hit—when did it hit? The last thing you remember is light. Pressure. The feeling of being pulled apart and stitched back together incorrectly.

You sit up slowly.

The alley is narrow.

Brick walls on either side, damp with last night’s rain. A flickering security light buzzes overhead. There’s a dumpster to your right, graffiti you don’t recognize sprayed in angry red strokes.

You look down at yourself.

Nightingale’s suit is scorched.

Hairline fractures spiderweb across the chest plate. Your gloves are blackened at the fingertips like you tried to grab the sun and lost. Your mask is still on—thank goodness—but the edge is cracked near your temple.

Your comm is dead.

Of course it is.

You try to stand.

Your ears ring as you push yourself upright, palms scraping against the ground.

Your hands stutter.

Not shaking. Stuttering.

Your fingers leave faint echoes behind them when you move, like afterimages burned into the air. You watch, horrified, as your wrist phases a fraction of an inch out of sync with the rest of you, snapping back with a sharp, nauseating jolt.

“Oh—no,” you whisper. Your voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “No, no, no—”

You stagger to your feet, back slamming against the wall as another wave of distortion rolls through you. It feels like pins and needles under your skin, like your atoms are being politely but firmly told they don’t belong here.

Wrong Star City.

You squeeze your eyes shut and try to breathe through it.

In. Out. Slow. The way Bruce taught you. The way Dinah insisted on when your hands shook too badly to string an arrow.

Dinah.

Your eyes snap open.

They were just with you. Both of them. You can still hear Dinah shouting over the rising whine of the collider, still see Ollie’s hand gripping your shoulder, too tight, too scared.

You turn in a slow, unsteady circle, scanning the street beyond the alley mouth.

Pain explodes up your spine and you gasp, stumbling back against the wall. Your breath comes fast, shallow. Your heart is hammering, too loud in your ears.

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “Okay. That’s fine. That’s—fine.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Where are Ollie and Dinah?

They were just there. You can still hear Dinah’s voice in your head, tight with warning. Ollie’s hand on your shoulder, solid, grounding.

You open your eyes again and the alley is still empty.

No Green Arrow. No Black Canary. No humming supercollider tearing reality open behind you.

Just Star City.

But not your Star City.

You think of your family, of Dick, Damian, your siblings back home, you wonder if Dinah and Ollie notified them of you disappearance. The panic the two of them might be feeling, are probably experiencing.

But your thoughts return to your surroundings.

Of a different Star City.

You don’t realise how deeply wrong it is until you hear footsteps.

They’re halfway down the block, arms full of nothing, the shopping bags long since abandoned back at the department store counter.

Dinah is mid-sentence, voice warm with something dangerously close to nostalgia, when Ollie stops so suddenly she almost runs straight into him.

“Ollie—?”

He doesn’t answer.

He’s staring down the alley.

Dinah follows his gaze, annoyance melting into something colder, sharper, the instant she sees the movement there. A figure braced against the brick, head bowed, armor catching the flickering streetlight in jagged flashes.

The air feels wrong.

Not tense. Not hostile.

Off.

“Do you see that,” Ollie says quietly.

Dinah’s fingers curl around his wrist without her thinking about it. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I do.”

The figure moves—and glitches.

For a split second there are two of them, offset by a fraction of space, before snapping violently back into one. Dinah’s breath catches hard in her throat.

“…That’s not funny,” she whispers. “That’s not—”

They’re already moving.

Not as Green Arrow and Black Canary. Not with masks and weapons and mission parameters.

Just as themselves.

Because whatever is happening in that alley, it feels personal in a way that makes Dinah’s chest ache.

You hear them before you see them properly. Footsteps approaching, voices cutting off mid-conversation.

You spin, adrenaline flaring sharp and hot, muscles screaming as you drop instinctively into a defensive stance. The world lurches again at the sudden movement, your balance wobbling as static skitters across your skin.

Two figures stand at the mouth of the alley.

Civilian clothes.

Dinah’s scarf. Ollie’s jacket.

The exact way Ollie stands when he’s relaxed but ready, weight shifted just so, hands loose at his sides.

Your heart slams into your ribs so hard it hurts.

“—Uncle Ollie?” The words slip out before you can stop them.

Both of them freeze.

Dinah’s eyes widen, just a fraction. Ollie’s shoulders go rigid, like someone’s just drawn a bowstring through his spine.

You take a step toward them.

The world breaks.

Your vision fractures into overlapping images, the alley stretching and folding in on itself as your body lags behind your intent. You gasp, clutching at your side as your outline shimmers violently, air cracking around you like displaced electricity.

“Hey!” Ollie snaps, all instinct now. “Don’t move.”

“Woah—woah,” you say quickly, panic rising, hands lifting placatingly even as they leave ghostly trails behind them. “It’s me, it’s me, I swear—”

You rip your mask off.

For one awful, suspended second, no one moves.

Dinah feels like the ground has dropped out from under her.

It’s you.

It’s your face.

The same person she’s scolded and laughed with , the same cheeks she's pressed kisses to when the world got too heavy. The same jawline, the same scar near your temple she remembers patching up herself.

But your eyes—

Goodness.

Your eyes look like they’ve seen too much.

Not older, exactly.

Just… exhausted in a way she’s never seen on you before.

Like sleep hasn’t touched you properly in years.

Like grief has taken up permanent residence behind them.

There are fine lines of tension around your mouth that shouldn’t be there yet.

Scars she doesn’t recognise.

A weight to the way you hold yourself that makes her chest ache.

You look at them like you’re drowning and they’re the only solid thing left in the world.

Ollie swallows hard.

“…Kid,” he says, voice low, careful, like one wrong syllable might shatter you. “That’s not possible.”

“I just saw you,” you say, breath hitching. “You were there. Both of you. The collider—Dinah, you were yelling at Merlyn, and Ollie you told me to get back and—”

Your body spasms.

A violent ripple tears through you, your form blurring and splitting before snapping back with a sound like a gunshot. You cry out, dropping to one knee, nausea flooding your throat.

Dinah moves without thinking.

Ollie catches her wrist.

“Dinah,” he says quietly. “Our kid is dead.”

The words sit there.

Heavy. Final.

You look up at him.

Something flickers across your face—pain, old and sharp—but it settles into something quieter, sadder.

“…Not on my Earth,” you whisper.

Silence.

Then Dinah steps forward anyway.

She stops just short of touching you, hands hovering inches from your shoulders, like she’s afraid you’ll glitch apart if she makes contact.

“Say that again,” she says softly. “Slowly.”

You explain.

Not cleanly. Not all at once.

Fragments spill out between breaths.

You come from a different Earth.

Different choices.

Bruce died instead of you.

Surviving things you weren’t supposed to.

Merlyn. The collider. The moment everything went wrong.

Ollie listens without interrupting.

That’s how Dinah knows—knows—he believes you.

Because with Ollie, disbelief would’ve come loud. Defensive. Angry.

Your body glitches again, smaller this time but relentless, a constant shimmer at your edges like the universe is tugging at you, trying to pull you loose.

Dinah’s eyes fill with tears she doesn’t bother to hide.

Ollie exhales slowly through his nose. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

She reaches for you.

Stops.

Looks at Ollie.

He nods.

Dinah pulls you into her arms.

The contact grounds you instantly—and breaks something wide open inside your chest. You cling to her like she’s gravity itself, fingers digging into her coat as another wave of distortion rolls through you. Dinah buries her face in your neck, inhaling the same smell that went with you everywhere.

Ollie joins a second later, wrapping both of you up, pressing his forehead briefly to yours.

“We’ve got you,” he murmurs, fierce and unsteady. “We’ve got you.”

For the first time since the collider, the world holds.

They don’t ask where to take you.

Ollie doesn’t even consider anything public.

The penthouse doors slide shut behind you, sealing out the city, and the quiet hits you like a wave.

Without the noise to anchor you, the wrongness comes roaring back.

The penthouse is different.

The kitchen and the living room have been swapped. Dinah and Ollie's wedding portrait looks different. Huh.

It's all a bit uncanny really.

It's the same house, same people, but there differences everywhere.

You think that's probably what they thought when they laid eyes upon you.

Your reflection in the glass windows flickers, lagging a half-second behind your movements. You sway, knees buckling as the room seems to tilt.

Dinah catches you before you hit the floor.

“Easy,” she murmurs, guiding you down onto the couch. “I’ve got you.”

Your glitching worsens under the stillness. Your outline shimmers constantly now, like a bad signal. Ollie watches it with a tight jaw, arms crossed, eyes never leaving you.

“You’re decaying,” he says.

You huff out a weak, breathless laugh. “Yeah. That happens when you’re not supposed to exist somewhere.”

Dinah shoots him a look.

“What,” he says. “That’s my way of panicking.”

She kneels in front of you, cupping your face gently, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes.

“We’re going to fix this,” she says, voice steady despite the tears shining there. “You hear me? We didn’t survive losing you once just to do it again.”

Your throat tightens.

“Still bossy across universes,” you murmur smirking.

Her smile breaks—and she pulls you into another hug, holding you like she’s afraid the universe might steal you back if she lets go.

She hugs you so tightly, it's so comforting.

You can tell she's been through a lot.

She still scratches your scalp the same way she always did, puts a hand behind your neck.

Some things never change, you guess.

The city outside keeps moving.

And for now—

You’re still here.

Ollie doesn’t pace when he dials.

He stands at the window of the penthouse, one hand braced against the glass, the other holding the phone like it might detonate. Star City glows below—alive, oblivious, cruel in its normalcy. Dinah sits behind you on the couch, her arm draped around your shoulders, thumb tracing slow, grounding circles like she’s afraid you’ll slip out of existence if she lets go.

The call connects on the third ring.

“Bruce,” Ollie says.

There’s a beat.

Then Bruce's voice, low, tired, restrained to the breaking point. “Oliver.”

Ollie exhales through his nose. “I need you to listen. And I need you to stay calm.”

That alone is enough to make Bruce’s spine go rigid on the other end of the line.

“What’s happened?” Bruce asks. “Is this about Gotham?”

“It’s about your daughter.”

Silence.

Not the empty kind.

The dangerous kind.

The kind that means Bruce has gone very, very still.

“…Which one,” Bruce says quietly. Asking even though he knows the answer.

Dinah closes her eyes.

“Y/N,” Ollie answers.

The name hangs between continents.

Bruce’s voice drops. “That’s not funny.”

“I know.”

“Oliver.”

“I’m not joking.”

Another pause.

Longer.

He can hear Bruce breathing now.

Controlled. Measured. Like he’s already bracing for impact.

“She’s dead,” Bruce says.

It isn’t an accusation.

It’s a statement. A fact carved into his bones.

“I buried her.”

Ollie swallows. “I know you did.”

“Then don’t say her name like this,” Bruce snaps. “Don’t—”

“She’s sitting on my couch,” Ollie says, cutting in. “She’s alive. She’s hurt. And she’s not from this universe.”

The words land wrong. Like broken glass in the mouth.

“You’re going to explain,” Bruce says, voice razor-thin, “right now.”

“She looks like her,” Ollie continues, slower now, choosing every word. “But older. Tired. Like grief’s been living in her bones for a long time. She knows things she shouldn’t. She called me uncle. She called Dinah aunt. She—”

“Stop,” Bruce breathes.

“No,” Ollie says. “You need to hear this. Because she thinks you are dead.”

Bruce’s hand tightens around his phone so hard it creaks.

“In her world,” Ollie says, “you died on the same mission. Same explosion. They ruled it a suicide. Covered it up. Just like—”

Bruce closes his eyes.

“…Just like we did with her,” he finishes hoarsely.

Dinah opens her eyes again, tears streaking silently down her face.

“She’s decaying,” Ollie adds. “She got into an incident with Merlyn and got shot into this universe, I think it's because this universe doesn't have Y/n in it. But it's like she doesn’t belong here. Barry might be able to help, but right now—right now she needs you.”

A long, broken breath on the other end.

“…I’m coming,” Bruce says.

“Come alone,” Ollie replies gently. “As Bruce.”

The call ends.

He doesn’t go to the cave.

He doesn’t touch the Batmobile, doesn’t pull on armour, doesn’t look at the memorial wall. He takes the stairs instead of the lift, every step echoing too loudly through the manor.

The living room is full.

They’re supposed to be gearing up.

Half-suited, half-armed, irritation crackling through the air because patrol was delayed again.

But they're not. 'Cuz they're benched.

Damian is on the floor with Elizabeth Taylor curled against his thigh, pink bed dragged in like a quiet rebellion. Dick is mid-sentence, Steph sprawled across the arm of a chair, Tim cross-legged with a tablet, Jason leaning against the wall, Cass and Duke close together.

Bruce passes through them like a ghost.

“Bruce?” Dick says, confused. “You good?”

Bruce doesn’t answer.

Jason straightens. “Hey. Where are you going?”

Bruce stops at the door.

“I need to step out,” he says.

Damian frowns immediately. “For what purpose?”

Bruce turns then.

His eyes land on each of them in turn, like he’s committing their faces to memory.

“It’s about your sister,” he says.

The room detonates.

“What?” Steph blurts.

Tim’s tablet slips from his hands and hits the floor with a sharp crack. “Bruce—?”

Dick is already moving. “Is she—did something—?”

“You benched us, then you say that?” Jason snaps. “You don’t get to just—”

“Enough,” Bruce cuts in, sharper than intended.

Silence slams down.

“I will explain,” Bruce says, forcing steadiness into his voice. “Later. Alfred will stay with you.”

Damian rises to his feet, Elizabeth’s leash still looped around his wrist. “Father. You are withholding critical information.”

Bruce meets his gaze.

It softens considerably.

He kneels to meet Damian.

“Son, I need you to trust me,” he says.

Damian’s jaw tightens.

He nods once.

Bruce leaves.

The front door closes behind him with a quiet finality that feels like another loss.

You don’t mean to open the news.

You really don’t.

But the penthouse is too quiet, and Dinah’s thumb has stilled on your shoulder, and Ollie’s gone tense in that way he gets when he’s bracing for bad timing. A tablet is in your hands before you’ve fully registered it.

Your name is trending. It's been trending for weeks.

You stare at it, blankly, like your brain refuses to translate.

You tap.

Your face fills the screen.

Y/N WAYNE, DAUGHTER OF BRUCE WAYNE, DEAD.

Another headline.

Another photo.

A gala smile.

A candid shot with Damian scowling beside you.

Death ruled a suicide.

Your throat closes.

“Oh,” you whisper.

Dinah notices instantly. “Hey—hey, sweetheart, what did you see?”

You tilt the phone toward her.

She sucks in a sharp breath.

You scroll numbly.

Edits. Tributes. Candle emojis.

She would’ve been another year older today.

People arguing in comment sections about whether you were happy.

Whether you were lonely.

Whether you were “too gentle for this world.”

Your hands start to shake.

“I’m dead,” you say, distantly. “Here, I mean.”

Dinah pulls you fully into her chest now, arms locking tight. “I know.”

Your eyes burn. “They said I killed myself.”

Ollie’s voice is rough. “They didn’t want questions.”

You nod slowly. “Same thing they did to my dad.”

The realisation settles like ash.

“This isn’t my universe,” you murmur. “I knew that. I just—I didn’t think it would hurt like this.”

Your vision blurs. The glitching starts again, a faint stutter at the edges of your hands, like static crawling up your skin.

Dinah presses her forehead to yours. “You’re okay. You’re here.”

“Am I allowed to be?” you ask quietly.

Footsteps sound behind you.

The door opens.

Bruce Wayne, your father, stands in the threshold.

He looks smaller without the suit.

Older.

His eyes find you instantly—and stop.

Time folds in on itself.

You look up.

Every breath has left your lungs.

Dinah and Ollie's gazes remain transfixed on you and Bruce staring at each other.

“Daddy?” you say, small and uncertain, like a child testing the edge of a nightmare. You stand, slowly.

Bruce crosses the room in three strides and pulls you into him, arms crushing, desperate, breath shuddering against your hair.

“Oh my goodness, baby, you’re here,” he whispers. “You’re real.”

You cling to him, fingers digging into his coat. “Daddy I missed you.”

He lets out a sound that might be a sob.

When he pulls back, his hands stay on your shoulders, grounding, trembling.

“You shouldn't be here. My daughter is dead,” he says, voice breaking. “Here.”

You nod.

“I know. I saw.”

“And in your world,” he continues, forcing the words out, “I died.”

“Yes.”

The symmetry is unbearable.

“They said you overdosed,” you add softly. “Suicide. They couldn’t tell the truth.”

Bruce closes his eyes. “We did the same to her.”

Your chest aches.

“I buried you. I took over the company. Dick became Batman. Damian—he needed someone. I stayed Nightingale. I just… hardened.”

Bruce cups your face gently. Smiling, even though the pain he's feeling is the worst he has ever felt, like stitches being ripped open again.

“You shouldn’t have had to.”

Your glitching worsens suddenly, static crawling up your arms.

Bruce notices immediately. His jaw sets.

“You’re destabilising,” he says. “Barry can help. He understands this kind of physics.”

You nod, trusting.

Exhausted.

“I don’t belong here,” you whisper.

Bruce pulls you into him again, softer this time.

“Maybe not,” he says. “But you’re not alone. I promise sweetheart.”

You wrap your arms around his waist, feeling like he'll disappear at any second, but you savour this moment.

The moment lingers longer than it should.

Bruce’s hands are still on your shoulders, like if he lets go you’ll flicker out completely. You can feel it—the strange, itchy wrongness under your skin, the way the air doesn’t quite agree with you.

Dinah watches it happen with a tight mouth. Ollie clocks it immediately.

“You’re destabilising again,” Bruce murmurs, more to himself than anyone else.

You nod faintly. “It gets worse when I think too hard.”

Bruce exhales, then straightens. The Batman slides back into place—not the armor, not the voice, but the decisiveness.

“I’ve already called Barry,” he says. “And I notified the Watchtower. Select members only.”

Ollie lifts an eyebrow. “You trust them with this kind of stuff?”

“I trust them with her,” Bruce replies without hesitation.

That lands heavier than anything else.

Dinah squeezes your hand. “Alright. Then we move.”

She stands, already reaching for the hidden panel near the hallway. “We suit up.”

You blink. “Now?”

Ollie gives you a soft, crooked smile. “Kid, if you’re gonna glitch out of existence, you’re doing it somewhere with the best minds in the universe.”

Dinah disappears briefly and returns with something folded carefully over her arm.

Your breath catches.

It’s a suit—but not yours.

Not Nightingale as you knew her.

The silhouette is familiar, but refined.

Reinforced seams. Subtle gold threading worked into the black. A faint canary insignia worked into the inside lining, near the collar.

Dinah holds it out. “Temporary. Modified to stabilise your vitals. Barry’ll do the real work, but this’ll help .”

You take it with trembling fingers. “You didn’t have to—”

“We did,” Ollie says gently.

As you change, the penthouse hums with quiet urgency. Dinah and Ollie suit up too, muscle memory guiding them. When you step back out, fully masked, Bruce stops breathing for half a second.

You’re Nightingale.

But older. Sharper. Tired in a way this world’s Nightingale never had the chance to be.

Bruce approaches you slowly, like you might spook.

“You ready?” he asks.

You hesitate—then lean forward and hug him.

He makes a small, broken sound as his arms wrap around you, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I should go home first,” he says quietly. “I need to tell them, the kids deserve to know.”

You nod. “I know.”

You pull back just long enough to press a kiss to his cheek. He does the same to your hair, lingering.

“Be careful,” he whispers.

“You too, daddy.”

He watches you go with Dinah and Ollie, something in his chest ripping open all over again.

Bruce drives home in silence.

The city lights blur past, reflections ghosting across the windows. His hands are steady on the wheel, but his thoughts are anything but.

Alive. Not his. Dead here. Alive somewhere else.

The manor looms ahead like a mausoleum.

Inside, the lights are on.

Alfred opens the door, welcoming him.

He walks ahead, trying to figure out a way to break the news to his children.

Too many of them. Voices carry faintly from the living room—irritated, confused, restless.

He steps inside and all of them turn at once.

Cass's head perks up first, she nudges Duke who stops talking

“Bruce?” Dick says immediately. “What the hell is going on?”

Jason pushes off the wall. “You disappear and drop that line about Y/N like it’s nothing—”

Steph and Tim are already standing, eyes sharp, scanning Bruce’s face. “Is this about the Watchtower alert?”

Bruce turns his head because how did he have Watchtower alerts?

Damian is quiet.

Elizabeth Taylor sits at his feet, tail thumping nervously, like she knows what's up. “Father,” he says. “Explain.”

Bruce closes the door behind him.

He doesn’t take off his coat.

He walks to the couch and sits.

That alone shuts them up.

“I need you all to listen,” Bruce says. “And not interrupt.”

That earns him a few looks, but no one speaks.

He swallows.

“Y/N is alive.”

The room explodes.

“What?” Steph blurts.

Tim stumbles forward a step. “That’s not—don’t do that.”

Jason laughs once, sharp and disbelieving. “That’s sick, man.”

Damian’s breath hitches. “Father—”

Bruce raises a hand. “She is alive. But not our Y/N.”

Dead silence.

Dick’s voice is barely audible. “…What?”

Bruce exhales. “She’s from another universe. In her world, I died. Same mission. Same explosion. They covered it up as a suicide.”

Tim pales. “Like we did to her here.”

“Yes.”

Cass steps closer to Steph instinctively. Duke’s hands curl into fists.

“So she just—what—shows up?” Jason demands. “Wearing her face?”

Bruce’s voice breaks despite himself. “She called me dad.”

Damian’s composure fractures. “You saw her?”

“Yes.”

“Where is she?” Damian asks immediately.

“They're on their way to the Watchtower, her, Dinah and Ollie. They were the ones who found her.” Bruce says. “She’s unstable. Barry’s working on something to stop the dimensional decay.”

Dick runs a hand through his hair, pacing now. “You didn’t bring her here.”

“It’s not safe yet.”

“For who?” Jason snaps.

Bruce looks at all of them. “For her. And for all of you.”

No one has an answer to that.

Only Elizabeth, who whines softly.

"Can we see her?" Duke asks,

"Eventually, I promise, let them get to the Watchtower, then we'll go." Bruce replies.

The Zeta-tube opens with a sound like the universe holding its breath.

Cold hits you first.

Not wind—there’s no air moving like that—but the kind of sterile, metallic chill that seeps straight through bone and settles behind your eyes.

The Watchtower always felt distant, even when you belonged here. Now it feels… vast. Hollow. Like a cathedral built for gods who forgot how to pray.

Below the transparent curve of the station, Earth hangs in silence.

Blue. Whole. Untouched by the fact that you died on it.

You take a step forward and your boots echo too loudly. Ollie’s already scanning the corridor, hand loose near his bow. Dinah walks just ahead of you, deliberate, protective without being obvious.

“You good?” Ollie asks, glancing back.

You nod, even though the static under your skin prickles in warning.

“Yeah,” you say. “Just… colder than I remember.”

Dinah hums. “It’s always like that your first time back.”

Back. You swallow.

The corridor stretches long and white and impossibly clean. As you walk, doors slide open. Heads turn.

John Stewart—freezes mid-conversation, eyes widening as they land on you.

Hal stares like he’s seen a ghost. Because he has.

Zatanna’s hand flies to her mouth.

Shayera stiffens, her wings twitching.

Martian Manhunter’s gaze sharpens instantly, unreadable but heavy with recognition.

You catch Victor Stone’s reflection in the glass—Cyborg’s systems visibly lag for half a second as he recalibrates what he’s seeing. Even Aquaman, regal and unshakable, pauses.

Every step forward feels like walking through your own funeral. Whispers ripple behind you.

“That’s—” “Didn't Bruce's kid pass?” “Wait what-.” “Is this some kind of—”

Ollie clears his throat loudly. “Eyes forward, folks. Multiverse emergency. Nothing to see here except your own business.”

That gets a few embarrassed looks, but the staring doesn’t stop.

You don’t really blame them.

At the end of the hall, the doors to the Flash’s lab slide open.

Barry’s voice spills out first. “—telling you, the math doesn’t lie, if she destabilises again—”

He stops mid-sentence. Clark turns. Diana looks up.

For half a second, none of them move.

Clark is the first to break.

He tries. You can tell he tries.

His shoulders square. His expression smooths into something neutral, professional. Justice League Superman.

“Nightingale. Y/N,” he says carefully. “It’s… great to see you.”

"Hi Uncle Clark" You reply softly

You barely have time to smile before he fails spectacularly.

In two strides he’s in front of you, pulling you into a hug so careful it almost hurts more than if he’d crushed you.

“Oh,” he breathes, voice breaking. “Oh, kid.”

Your arms come up automatically, pressing into his chest.

He smells the same. Sun-warm and familiar and devastating.

“Jonathan really misses you,” he says softly into your hair. “He keeps asking how your doing, forgetting that your uh-.”

Your throat closes, you cut him off. “I miss him too.”

Diana steps forward next, hands gentle as she cups your face, searching you with ancient eyes.

“You are weary,” she says quietly. “More than you should be.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. That tracks, thanks Aunt Di.”

Barry doesn’t even pretend to be calm. He darts in, hugging you quick and tight, then pulling back just as fast, hands already hovering like you might fall apart if he blinks.

“Okay,” he says, voice wobbling. “Wow. You look—wow.”

“Bad wow?” you ask.

“Tired wow,” he corrects immediately. “Like you’ve been carrying grief in a backpack with no straps.”

That hits harder than anything else.

Clark frowns. “She’s dimmer.”

You blink. “Dimmer?”

Barry nods. “Not in a bad way. Just… less light. Our Y/N was—” He gestures vaguely. “Sharper. Louder. You feel like… aftermath.”

You smile thinly. “Yeah no shit. I watched my dad die.”

That does it.

The static spikes.

It starts in your fingers—white noise crawling up your hands, your vision stuttering like a corrupted video file. The floor feels too far away, then too close.

Dinah swears. “She’s glitching.”

Your body flickers. Once. Twice.

“Hey—hey—hey,” Barry says quickly, hands on your shoulders. “Stay with me. Don’t fight it.”

You try to breathe and fail spectacularly as the world fractures.

Your arm phases through itself.

You gasp.

Clark’s hands hover uselessly. Diana’s jaw tightens.

“I need time,” Barry says sharply. “I can build something, but I need her stable now.”

“I’m trying,” you choke, and then your knees buckle.

The room dissolves into static

When sensation comes back, it’s softer.

There’s a band around your wrist—warm, humming faintly, like it’s alive. The static is still there, but muted. Padded.

Barry sits in front of you, goggles pushed up into his hair, eyes red-rimmed but bright with relief.

“Particle stabiliser,” he says proudly. “Temporary, but it’ll hold you together.”

You flex your fingers. They stay solid.

“Oh,” you whisper. “That’s… better.”

He grins, exhausted. “Yeah. Thought you’d like that.”

Dinah squeezes your shoulder. Ollie lets out a breath he’s clearly been holding for a while.

Across space, a notification lights up on Batman's display.

GLITCHING STABILISED. SUBJECT SAFE.

His hands tremble.

Wayne Manor is silent in the way only grief makes things silent. Bruce stands in the Cave, staring at the message like it might disappear if he looks away.

“She’s stable,” he says finally.

Every head snaps up.

Dick’s breath catches. Tim and Cass are already moving. Jason swears under his breath. Damian looks at Duke and Steph, his eyes shine with something dangerous and hopeful.

“We’re going,” Bruce says, voice ironed flat. “Suit up.”

And somewhere, kilometres away, your laughter rings down a Watchtower corridor—

and the silence that follows it is so loud it hurts.

A/N: Praying that this doesn't flop (it probably will ngl) , it def needs a part 3 sorry guys, i was actually gonna include a scene where AU!Batsis meets the batfam of this universe, but i couldn't be bothered i was cracked out while writing this. also does anybody want a fic of batsis with uncle ollie and aunt dinah, also ik this shit is so ass but I'm so proud of myself for conjuring up 10000 words

Hope you all enjoyed this! Likes, comments, reblogs and requests are highly appreciated! Requests are open!

Dividers from @cafekitsune